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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. ) 



LA TESTE'S POEMS. 




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POEMS 

BY 

/ 

WILLIAM HAY LEITH TESTER, 
(LA TESTE.) 

SECOND EDITION, ENLARGED, 
WITH AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



' Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' niirc, 

At pleugh or cart. 
My Muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch tho heart."— IU'kns. 



ELGIN: ; 

PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.' 



M D C C C L X V I 1. 



PREFACE. 



Most generous, most indulgent fellow-citizens, 
Ye noble peoples of the rigid North, 
Lo ! in the volume of the book I come — 
Edition second of my works select — 
And which T humbly dedicate to you. 

No mighty bard am I, of world-spread fame, 
Scribbling a preface to some potent peer, 
With fulsome flattery full, acting at once 
Both parasite and hypocrite — not I — 
But simple in my lay as in my life, 
Striving to paint fair Nature as she is, 
Ambitious only that my song might please 
Her simplest children — proud in their applause- 
That I might find a home in each true heart, 
And in the people's dearest memories live. 

If I have written aught that hath offended, 
Or caused a blush upon the cheek of modesty. 



PREFACE. 

rorgive the error uniiitently made, 

For I would cut my hand off should it write 

Auoht that would mar the morals of the masses. 

If in my softer lines of love I've won 

Your fond esteem and much desired remembrance, 

Then am I blest indeed, for I have won 

The fairest laurel ever poet wore. 

Accept the gratitude I owe, oh people, 
From a fond heart with gratitude o'erflowing ; 
Nor shall my soul in sweet communion secret 
With its adored Divine fail to implore 
His sovereign blessing on His sovereign people. 

La Teste. 



CONTENTS 



Pack. 

La Teste's Lord's Prayer, 1 

The Sabbath Morn in May, 3 

The Sabbath Eve in June amongst the Ruins, ... 6 

The Three Flowers, 9 

The Orphan's Dream, 15 

The Queen of the May, 19 

Autumn Leaves, 20 

Elsie's Cross, 23 

In Memoriam (W. G., Esq.), 24 

The Rich Man's Soliloquy, 25 

All's Well, &c. (New Play), 27 

The Elginshire Riflemen's March, 29 

Victoria's Spinnin' Wheel, 31 

The Highlanders' Welcome 33 

The Orange, 34 

The Lamb of the Flock, 36 

The Minstrel's Lay, 38 

In Memoriam (Mrs M.,) 40 

The Hero's Return, 42 

ROUALEYN no MoRE, 44 

Dreaming, 45 

The Homeward Bound, , 48 

The Flunkey's REC0MMENDATI0^, 50 

The Duthil Men's March, 57 

Oscar of the Mount 59 

My Old Sofa, 63 

My Old Arm Chair, .... 66 

Deacon Dorothy's Advice, 69 

The Macgregor's Grave, 72 

The Campbell on his Father's Grave, 74 

In Memoriam (Mr P. M'D.,) "... 76 

Abram Pairtin' wi' Hagar, 77 

Cora Lee, 79 

The Mither's Lament, S3 

June Sunrise at Cullen, . 86 

OoR Wife Jean, 87 

The Glen Twenty Years Ago, 89 

The Pauper's Death and Funeral, 95 



Vlll. 



CONTENTS. 



The Bare-footed Laddie, . 
Cakes and Ale, .... 

Wanted, a Wife, .... 

Good News, 

List o' Goods in oor Shop, . 
My Last Night's Dream, . 
Fareweel to the Garret, . 

Lizzie's Awa', 

In Memoriam (W. R. Esq), 

Lament of the Highlander's Queen, 

The Presentation, .... 

Laura Lee, 

Love's Reward, 

Jean Anderson My Joe, Jean, 

The Gipsy Girl for Me, . . . 

My Bonny Rosa Ray, . . • 

Books an' Beef, 

The Duke's Awa', .... 

Oor Cock Robin, 

The Auld Jail Bell, . . . 

Ben Bolt, 

Widow, I wad Woo Thee, 

My Valentine to Justitia in the Moon, 

The Flower of Portsoy, . 

The Maid of Tor-Chluin, . 

Annie's Awa' 

The Lark's already Liltin' Lood, 

bonnellz de bordeaux, ... 

Drink to the Bards, Boys ! . . . 

Oor Welcome to Alba, Bard of Vinny, 

Epistle to Isabella, Melbourne, Australia, 

A Fou Fallow's iMidnicht REPLEctioNs, 

What oor Museum Contains, 

Frae Her Nainsel' to Her Nainsel', 

The Laird's Epitaph, .... 

Auld Scotia's Pi^id, 

Willie's Wooin', . 

The Coach-Biggers' Rant, 

Jean Shall be my Dearie, 

Jemima Rosebud's Song, . 

Song— My Nannie 0, . 

Alliterative Acrostic, . 

WiDDY Machroy, 

Sweet Cookey St Clare, . 

Autobiography, , 



Page. 
97 



100 
104 
107 
110 
112 
114 
115 
116 
118 
119 
121 
123 
126 
128 
132 
133 
136 
138 
140 
143 
144 
145 
146 
147 
148 
150 
151 
153 
155 
163 
168 
174 
177 
178 
180 
183 
186 
188 
190 
191 
192 
194 
197- 



LA TESTE'S LORD'S PRAYEE. 



I. 

" Our Father who" omnipotently reigns 
O'er earth, and sea, and heaven's infinite plains — 
Sole Monarch of those myriad worlds that trace 
Harmoniously their path through endless space — 

II. 

For ever " Hallowed be Thy holy name" 
As God, all-wise, unchangeably the same — 
The great I AM, the Omnipresent Lord, 
In every attribute be Thou adored. 

HI. 

" Thy kingdom come" — that heavenly paradise — 
The hope of saints, the "jewel without a price," 
Where mighty souls from tribulation borne. 
Rejoice in Thee through an eternal morn. 

IV. 

" Thy will be done on earth as 'tis in heaven" — 
Thy will reveal'd on sacred Sinai given ; 
When Thou, O, Sire ! vouchsaf'st to teach the way, 
'Tis ours, Thy cherished offspring, to obey. 



LA teste's poems. 

V. 
Amply each day " give us our daily bread" — 
Thine ever bounteous hand our table spread ; 
Supply each *vant through sorrow, sin, and strife. 
Till we receive at last the " bread of life." 

VI. 

Our multitude of sins, O, God ! "Forgive ;" 
For Thou hast written, as thy soul doth live, 
Though man's trangressions were of crimson glow, 
Thoul't make them white, and pure as virgin snow. 

VII. 

And as Thou lovest to forgive, O then, 
Assist us to forgive our fellow-men — 
That wordly jars and enmity may cease, 
Looking to Thee, thou Lord of love and peace, 

VIII. 

" And lead us not into temptation's" path ; 
And if we waver, spare us in Thy wrath ; 
And in Thy loving-kindness wean us, God, 
From the broad way into the narrow road. 

IX. 

" Deliver us from evil" day by day — 
Thou art the potter — we are but the clay ; 
Guide rosy youth — protect the silvery head — 
Comfort the weary — smooth the dying bed. 

X. 

" For thine the kingdom" — glorious to behold ! 
And Thine " The power" — Almighty, uncontroll'd — 
" The glory Thine" — while we shall sing Thy praise, 
And angels chorus heaven's divinest lays. 



THE SABBATH MORN IN MAY. 



THE SABBATH MORN IN MAY. 

Hail ! morn of morns ! hail, hallelujah, hail I 
Blessed for ever, and for ever hallowed 
By Thou, O God, its glorious Creator. 

Awake ! immortal, ever-wrestling thing — 
Soul-unembodied, or whate'er thou art — 
That deigns to rest in this corruptive flesh. 
Yet never resting, ever on the wing — 
Soaring aloft through bright vermilion clouds 
To that blue vault infinite, whence ye came, 
Like a caged warbler fluttering to be free ! 

Awake ! and let the grovelling things of eartli. 

Its turmoil and its strife, its love and lust — 

Its golden nothings, e'en its happiest hopes 

Be buried in forgetfulness this morn. 

Away, my soul, while fair Aurora streaks 

The gay green lawn, rich with the gems of heaven. 

And underneath its canopy of blue — 

Alone — yet not alone — seraphs invisible 

Around thee will rejoice, as ye pour forth 

Thy holiest song, 'mid Nature's early beauty, 

To him who reigns supreme — fair Nature's God ! 

Sacred thy strain, in symphony most sweet, 

Till in a labyrinth of love thou'rt lost, 

Dying, as it were, into a non-existence 

To wake anew — lulling in an angel's lap, 

a2 



4 LA TESTE S POEMS. 

Breathes there a bard on earth that loves not thee, 
Thou beauteous Sabbath morn in sunny May ? 
Then let him breathe no more thy fragrant air, 
The perfume of thy flowers, moist with the dew — 
Nor hear the carol of those thousand birds 
Waking sweet notes that echo through the vale. 

Carol away ; 'twas thus ye carol'd when 
The Architect Divine this morning hallowed, 
And rested from creation's mighty work ; 
Not this revolving little ball alone — 
Ten thousand trillion worlds, remote in space 
Eye hath not seen, nor human mind can grasp. 
Sprang into being when that voice pronounced, 
" Let heaven arise, and let the earth appear." 

Carol away ; 'twas thus ye carol'd when 
The first of Sabbaths dawn'd, when angels sang 
Their heavenly anthems round the emblazon'd throne, 
" Glory to God — fair are Thy works and good — 
Infinite in Wisdom, Omnipotent in Power !" 

Carol away ; 'twas thus ye carol'd when 
Pure from the hand of God, angelic fair. 
Our mother Eve luxuriant Eden trod ; 
Eich with the dews of morn the daisy kiss'd 
Her snow-white foot, and Eden's cedars dropped 
Upon her alabaster brow their pearls. 
As languishing she heavenward gazed to hear 
That melody which wakes but heavenly love. 



THE SABBATH MORN IN MAY. I 

Carol away ; 'twas thus ye carol'd when 

Jehovah said, " A ransom is provided." 

Well may I sing, like Judah's bard of old, 

" Lord, what is man, that Thou should'st care for him V 

A little worm, a sinful crawling thing. 

Here for a day — to-morrow ever gone ; 

And yet thou lov'd so well rebellious man 

That even the Prince of Peace must die for him. 

Carol away ; 'twas thus ye carol'd when 
The Sun of Eighteousness in glory rose 
Triumphant over death, hell, and the grave. 
Fulfilling to the letter that which was written 
By inspired pens a thousand years before — 
" A Star shall rise in Bethlehem," in whose rays 
A world redeem'd, sunk in a sea of sin, 
Shall bask through an eternity of time. 

Oh ! blessed Hope, sinners of earth rejoice, 

That Star has risen which will never set — 

" Shiloh has come." Awake the song of praise. 

And hail the morn of God — man's dearest boon. 

Despairing soul be glad, and joyous sing. 

Believing that in flowery language, soft, 

" The Lily of the Vale," ever fair, 

And " Sharon's Kose," unfading, bloom for you. 



LA TESTE S POEMS. 



THE SABBATH EVE IN JUNE AMONGST 
THE EUINS. 

Hail ! eve of beauty, soul-consoling eve, 

The consecrated evening of our God, 

The saint's delight, the sinner's hope and rest ; 

And hail ye ruined pile, whose mouldering walls 

Eeceive e'en now the last red rays of him — 

The world's illuminator, and the source, 

The life and light of animated things. 

In one vermilion blaze of beauty shines 

The fair horizon of the distant west ; 

Their clouds of fleece, ascending, curl on clouds 

Whose golden tints outrival beauty's blush ; 

And resting on the mountain's rugged brow. 

Like Sinai's mount where God in glory shone, 

It seems to burst into a living flame. 

beautiful art thou, fair setting orb. 

The poet's adoration, for in thee 

He sees the power and majesty of Him 

Who fram'd thy blazing fabric out of nought. 

And plac'd thee in thine orbit with His hand, 

And bade thee ever and unwearying roll 

Life's luminary till the latest day — 

Till that great day thy glory shall grow dim, 

And yon fair moon be turned into blood. 

In solitude's dear dream, I fancy oft, 

To souls elect — in summer's Sabbath eve — 

It must be truly beautiful to die. 



THE SABBATH EVE IN JUNE. 7 

Divine in thought, and buoy'd with hopes of heaven, 

The soul, o'erflowing with the love of God, 

Transcendant soars through constellations vast, 

And space incomprehensible, until 

It reach the footstool of His throne, and there, 

In song most fervent, sing the praise of Him 

Who gave it an unfading immortality. 

Ye soul entranced ! in love's bright halo lost, 

Say would it not be beautiful to die 

In such a calm resplendent eve as this ? 

Hush'd now the carol of the birds that woke 

The morning's ruddy glow — serenely grand ! 

Save wdiere the thrush, perch'd on yon bougli, pours 

forth 
Its short farewell to day's departing orb. 
Light moan the zephyrs, like an infant's wail, 
Amid the branches of those towering elms. 
Broad in their sweep, and graceful in their wave, 
Throwing melancholy shadows o'er the tombs. 
The murmur of thy water, gentle stream, 
Pellucid flowing to the unfathom'd deep. 
Impresses on the mind the solemn truth. 
That time is fleeting fast — that life is but 
A running stream, whose water ne'er returns 
Back to its source — but onward, onward glides, 
Till swallowed in eternity's abyss. 
Eeflect, proud man, thou would-be pious fool, 
Thou who wouldst spurn thy brother worn, because 
Thy narrow intellect cannot perceive, 
Glaring as day, deficiencies in thine own ; 
Humble thy pride, go shrink within thyself, 
Thou'rt but of yesterday, and kuowest nought. 



8 LA teste's poems. 

Flow on thou gentle stream, murmur away, 

E'en as thou murmur'd centuries ago, 

When this magnificent, now rotting pile. 

Stood fair — the boast and glory of the North. 

Where is its grandeur now — its painted walls ? 

Its towers and spires, and ceilings golden-hued ? 

The pomp, the power, the pride that ruled within ? 

Its secret sins no eye could see save His ? 

Its fat ecclesiastics — men who lov'd 

Life's luxuries, its affluence and ease ? 

Gone ! long ago ! buried in oblivion's night — 

Plotting, unknown, amid its mouldering ruins ! 

Was there not one who found a refuge here 

In later times, the only noble one 

That ever breathed within its time-worn walls ? 

Whose memory is imperishable as 

The sea-girt rock, while yonder edifice 

Shall stand the test of time, and be the home 

Of hoary age and rosy orphan'd youth. 

Born of a fool, and cradled in its font. 

Hard was his infant pillow ; but he grew 

To man's estate — his country's warrior he. 

And valour made the warrior millionaire ; 

The millionaire became philanthropist — 

Grand was his destiny ! God, how grand ! 

Wondrous art Thou in all Thy works, Lord ! 

Thy ways unsearchable, past finding out. 

The murmur of thy water, gentle stream, 

Eecalls fond memories of a dear one dead. 

Who left us early for an angel home ; 

Green grows the grass upon thy grave, fair sleeper. 

And fain would I have placed a head-stone here. 



. THE SABBATH EVE IN JUNE. 

To mark thy spot of calm repose ; but ah ! 

The world's gold is ever scarce with me. 

The little loving blossoms that ye left 

Oft ask — Where is our gentle mother now ? 

I answer sadly — We will go to thee, 

But thou wilt ne'er return again to us. 

No earthly wish have I, save one — 'tis this — 

That they may lay me when life's sands are run, 

Some beauteous Sabbath eve, in this green spot, 

Beside thyself, and reunited rest — 

Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust. 



THE THEEE FLOWERS. 

Indulging in a gloomy mood, 

And wandering back to auld langsyne, 
A-weighing the evil and the good 

Of such a worthless life as mine. 
Up went the good — down came the bad— 
Ah me ! it made my soul so sad ! 

I fancied many virtues rare 

Within that soul, like meteors played ; 
But ah ! they proved as light as air. 

When with my many vices weigh'd. 
I wondered, as I heaved a sigh. 
If others were as light as I. 



10 LA teste's poems. 

I weigh'd a mighty parson then — 
A preacher popular and rare — 

With talents far 'bove other men, 

Whose learning made the vulgar stare. 

Up went the good — down came the bad — 

This time I didn't feel so sad. 

Though lighter than myself, the shock 

Awoke a feeling of regret — 
Eeceiving lately from his flock 

A purse of gold and lots of plate. 
I found he had no love for them — 
It was ambition and a name. 

I weigh'd one of the critic brood. 

Who, if he could, would genius smash ; 

Who thought himself the only good — 
A writer of the veriest trash. 

I found, to my infinite glee, 

He was the liglitest of the three. 

If Thou, Power, hast talents given 

To little poets such as we ; 
And if those gifts have come from heaven, 

Their origin must be in Thee. 
Then why permittest thou a clown 
To ring those little talents down ? 

And now, methought, I'd weigh a King, 
Anointed by a right divine : 

He surely is a goodly thing. 

Springing, as he docs, from such a line. 



THE THREE FLOWEKS. 11 

Pray let it not your minds appal — 
He was the lightest of us all. 



A little child, so young, so fair, 
Knelt by her mother's knee that night ; 

Her waxen hands were clasp'd in prayer- 
It was a holy, happy sight. 

Soft on mine ear those lispings fell : 

" Our Father who in Heaven doth dwell." 



Pure, lovely as an angel's self, 

I found unutterably more 
Of goodness in that angel elf, 

Than all the mighty quoted four. 
Up flew we like a gas-blown ball — 
The little cherub weigh'd us all ! 

I weigh'd so much in fancy's scale, 
'Twould fill a volume to rehearse ; 

T might have weigh'd, I cannot tell, 
Until I'd weigh'd the universe — 

Had not Elgina's fairest three 

Aroused me from my reverie. 

welcome are ye, "joy of joys," 
As we in noble Burns have read ; 

Now let me hear that dulcet voice. 
" We come," the laughing Anna said, 

" To cheer thy solitude an hour. 

And pray accept from each a flower." 



12 LA teste's poems. 

Your voices wake my soul to mirth, 
Einging on mine ear like silver bells, 

Bringing me back again to earth, 

It's birds and brooks and flowery vales. 

For oh ! I've been so far away, 

Like James, beyond the " Verge of Day." 

Flowers, said ye ? Sweetest of all themes — 
There's nought so fair on earth as flowers ; 
'Mid flowery beds the poet dreams, 

The happiest of life's golden hours. 
Ah ! 'tis a thousand pities they. 
When plucked, should fade so soon away. 

" Mine is no flower, 'tis but a leaf," 

The dark-eyed Anna, blushing, sigh'd, 
" But of all leaves it is the chief, 
A green bay from the river's side." 
She whisper'd in her sweetest breath — 
'Twas this — " I change not but in death," 

i 
It fell like music on mine ear, 

Coming from a ruby lip like her's ; 
When evening breeze, in twilight dear. 

The wavy, leafy, myrtle stirs ; 
Or like the sound of distant billow. 
Or Judah's harp humming on a willow. 

And what is this, sweet Lizzie — what ? 

Sweet Lizzie, with the cherry cheek. 

" ! 'tis a new-pluck'd pansey, that" — 

She muttered in a voice most meek ; 



THE THREE FLOWERS. 13 

And with my pen she smiling wrote, 
" You occupy my every thought !" 



This is the language of the flower, 
Thou beauty with the sparkling eye ; 

And in my heart's warm sunny bower, 
I'll place it there — 'twill never die. 

Admiring every morn its hue, 

I'll kiss the flower and think 'tis you. 

And what is this, fair Isabel, 

Thou hast so kindly brought to me ? 

" O 'tis the lily of the vale. 

The flower I know most prized by thee." 

Then uttered in a voice divine, 

" Eeturn of happiness be thine !" 

I felt my burning bosom glow — • 
Flowers — how beautiful you speak ! 

And in affection's overflow, 

I kiss'd her pretty peachy cheek ; 

I swear, fair Isa, by the powers, 

Thou'lt ever be my flower of flowers. 



What can I give you in return ? 

I'm rich in nought, save poesy dear, 
For sure enough there ne'er was bora, 

So poor a bard as him you hear. 
"■ One little song of love be ours. 
And call it, if you will. The Flowers. 



14 LA teste's poems. 

And ye shall have it, if I live 
To see another morning's glow — 

Ah ! little love have I to give, 
My love lies buried long ago ; 

Those lines of love, fair girls, ye crave, 

Are but effusions from the grave. 

Soft memories waft me back again 
To sunnier lands and sunnier scenes. 

Oh ! tis the poet's dearest strain. 
The rosy morning of his teens, 

When love's pure flame his bosom fir'd, 

And all divine his muse inspir'd. 

Oh ! I could write a thousand lines 
On this much-loved, familiar theme — 

E'en now, my bosom longing pines, 
To dream again that rosy dream ; 

If Heaven would grant me from the tomb. 

That which made bright life's every gloom. 

It cannot be ! nay, maidens, nay. 

Wherefore wish back the love at rest ? 

Nay, let me rather, maidens, pray 
That you and I may be as blest ; 

Earth's flowers will wither and decay. 

But Heaven's, luxuriant, bloom for aye. 



THE OKPHAN'S dream. 15 



THE ORPHAN'S DREAM. 

Madonna-like she lay — a miniature 

Sculptured in marble, by a master hand, 

Of her — the Virgin Mother of our Lord. 

The functions of vitality, it seem'd, 

O'erwrought by fever, had at last succumb'd. 

So still, so pallid, corpse-like lay the child. 

Colder, and colder wax'd the clammy temples, 

Which but an hour ago so madly burn'd 

And rapidly pulsated faster than time, 

As if the boiling crimson stream of life 

Would burst the channel in its fury, which 

Conveyed it to the wavering intellect. 

Her fair broad brow o'erhung with dark-brown tresses. 

Now alabaster pale, was clotted with 

The perspiration of the internal struggle. 

The waxen lids droop'd o'er the hazel orbs 

Like willows drooping o'er a lake in moonlight ; 

The flush of fever from the cheeks subsided, 

The lily flourish'd where the rose had faded, 

A shade less white — yet beautifully wan, 

The once round scarlet pouting lips assumed 

The clay-like hue which follows dissolution. 

One little hand upon her bosom prest. 

Indicative of the spot which pain'd the most, 

And which methought would never more respire. 

The other twined amid a mass of locks 

She, in her raving agony had torn 

To give free egress to the fancied flame. 

Which, scalp-confined, consumed both mind and matter. 



16 LA teste's poems. 

And thus she lay, my little orphan beauty, 

Apparently in that dull, dreamless sleep 

Which knows no waking on this side eternity. 

I lov'd the tiny creature from her birth, 

And as she grew, a yearning indescribable 

Stole softly o'er me, daily, nightly, hourly ; 

To me she was a treasure in herself, 

So loving, winning, innocent, and artless, 

So sensitive, so ancient in repartee, 

That oft I've mutter'd to myself, she should 

Have been in Eden born, and call'd Eve " Mother." 

And did I weep ? no ! that reservoir 
The world's frigidity hath long since frozen. 
And yet, I wish'd it were not, and I pray'd, 
Like Judah's prophet of the olden time — 
" Oh that my head was now a fount of tears, 
Mine eyes a river, that I could but weep 
One solitary hour for this ewe-lamb." 

Eapt in the contemplation of the past — 

The present and the future — waned the night hour. 

Grasping the hand which rested on her heart, 

Lo ! what a thrill of joy I felt — it still 

Ketain'd the warmth of life — and then I thought 

Of Lazarus, who was not dead but slept. 

The pale lips parted and a sigh escaped ; 

Her gentle bosom heaved as heaves the billow 

In the calm twilight of a summer eve ; 

The eyelids rose serenely, gently, languidly ; 

The dewy haze of death melted away 

As melts the morning mist when the red sun 



THE orphan's dream. 17 

Effulgent rises from his orient couch. 

A smile complacent lit the upturn'd eye, 

And in a voice so weak, yet sweet, spoke thus : 

" How beautiful she look'd, my angel mother, 

Drest in a robe a thousand times more white 

Than the long shroud she wore that morn she died. 

She said it was her robe of righteousness, 

With gems emblazon'd — jewels without a price. 

A crown of gold adorn'd her hallow'd brow. 

Which threw a heavenly halo o'er her face ; 

And on the front part of the circlet blazed. 

In emerald and sapphire, ruby, diamond, pearl, 

The word, thrice written, Holy 1 Holy ! Holy ! 

How beautiful she look'd, my angel mother, 

Borne on a seraph's pinion, as methought, 

The goodly angel soar'd so fleet, it seem'd 

A second scarcely had elapsed ere he. 

Benignly smiling, laid me in her lap. 

I felt so overwhelm'd in bliss, as she, 

Caressing, lull'd me to her flower- wreathed bosom, 

As she was wont to do in my weak infancy. 

She kiss'd away the fever from my brow ; 

In her embrace, the flame my heart consumed 

Became extinguish'd. As her white lips parted 

To utter words divinely eloquent, 

Expressive of her tenderness, her breath 

Was like the perfume of the sweet verbena. 

Four tiny things, not half so big as I, 
Most fair, around her flowing robe reclined. 
She said they were my brothers and my sisters ; 
Their faces glow'd in beauty, golden-like, 



18 LA teste's poems. 

And round each brow garlands of flowers were 

wreathed — 
Eoses of Sharon — lilies of the vale — 
Which neither droop nor fade, but ever bloom. 
My dazzled eye amid their petals traced 
Heaven's purest dew-drops, glistening in the words 
They form'd themselves — ' Of such my kingdom is.' 
She bade them sing me now their song of Zion ; 
The four uprose, and smiling on each other, 
They cross'd their tiny hands and sang their hallelujah 
In melody so low, so sweet, so ravishing. 
And now the angel who had borne me hither, 
With wing extended, as for flight, appear'd 
Clinging to her bosom. In my fear I sobb'd 
Oh ! mother, do not let him tear me from thee — 
Tis a cold world for the orphan mother — 
Oh ! do not let him separate us again. 
And bending o'er me with a look so tender, 
With all the mother's yearning for her child, 
She smiled and soothing said — Not yet, my darling ; 
A little while, and then thou'lt be with me ; 
And as she stoop'd to kiss my brow, sighing I woke. 

Father of mercy, life, love, hope, and light. 
One other tranquil hour of sleep, oh ! grant me, 
That I may dream again this holy dream !" 



THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. 19 

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. 

TO CATHERINE. 

Go pluck me the rich and the rare wild flowers 

That bloom in the shady dell, 
The white haw-blossoms from Cupid's bowers, 

The rosebud and bonny blue bell ; 
And a goodly garland I will twine, 

With morning dew-drops gay. 
And I'll place it, love, on that brow of thine, 

And thou shalt be Queen of the May, 
Sweet Kate, 
And thou shalt be Queen of the May. 

On the banks, sweet Kate, of the bubbling burn, 

'Mid a bevy of beauties rare, 
Thou'lt dance in the ray of the radiant morn. 

The Queen of the fairest there ; 
Soft, soft on the diamond dazzling green. 

To the lark's melodious lay. 
And Nature and nymph shall hail the Queen, 

The Queen of the dawning May, 
Sweet Kate, 
The Queen of the dawning May. 

Then pluck me the richest and rarest flowers, 

That I may a garland twine — 
The fragrant of blossoms from love's blest bowers, 

And the Queen of the May be mine. 

a2 



20 LA teste's poems. 

On the banks, sweet Kate, of the merry burn, 

To the lark's enchanting lay. 
We'll dance in the gold of the smiling morn, 

And thou shalt be Queen of the May, 
Sweet Kate, 
And thou shalt be Queen of the May. 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 



'Tis melancholy midnight, sombre, drear, 
Dark as the tomb of death's eternal sleep ; 
No starry ray can penetrate the mass 
Of labouring clouds, borne from the frigid North 
Upon the growling blast of waning autumn, 
Enshrouding dark moon — unenlighten'd earth — 
In one vast mantle of the deepest black. 

No sound of life strikes on the listening ear 
To cheer the o'erwhelming solitude which reigns — 
Save the sad sighing of the midnight blast 
'Mid leafless boughs, like meanings of the dying 
When soul and clay engage in final contest. 

Perch'd on the crumbling tower, the night-bird blends 

His solitary hootings, with the sounds 

Of crumpled autumn leaves, yellow and sere. 

Whirling, fluttering, rustling o'er the tombs — 

Doleful and death-like — ne'ertheless to me 

There is a music in their dull monotony — 

More ravishing, more beautiful than e'en 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 21 

The tones which vibrate from an angel's harp, 
Creating trillions of majestic thoughts, 
Which, in the light, might dormant sleep for ever, 
Did not the solitude of night awake them. 

The mind roams back to time incomprehensible, 
When earth was but a chaos, when the voice 
Of the Most High proclaim'd — " Let there be Light !" 
The earth, obedient to his call, produced 
On mountain and in vale her various trees — 
Pomegranate, cedar, sycamore, and chestnut 
Alike uprose, magnificent in height. 
Luxuriant in foliage and in fruit. 

What soft sensations must have thrill'd the breast 

Of Eden's Queen, that morn her eye survey'd 

The wavy boughs, with countless dew-bathed leaves, 

Gorgeously glittering in Aurora's ray. 

Beneath their shady canopy at noon. 

Impenetrable to the solar beam — 

Her dark eye closed in sleep to dream of love, 

And languish on the bosom of her lord 1 

Leaves, autumn leaves ! with what regret she must 

Have looked upon your fading, beauteous green, 

As surly gusts of autumn stripp'd your boughs 

To fall and perish round the parent tree. 

What sad forebodings must have pain'd her soul, 

As her nude foot your trampling millions trod. 

Fair Paradise, bereft of all its beauty, 

Its gay green mantle withering into yellow. 

Its rich ripe fruit rotting on the clammy ground. 

Each treasured flower her fair soft hand had nursed, 



22 LA teste's poems. 

Dead now, or drooping daily into death. 
No wonder, with her eye upturned to heaven, 
She ask'd some passing seraph on the wing 
With child-like innocence, devoutly soft, 
" Will lovely summer never come again ?" 

Leaves, withering leaves ! lo ! what a mighty lesson 
Your brief existence reads poor, gross mortality ! 
Man, pompous man, with all the glittering baubles 
Of wealth and power, and pride, and erudition, 
Is but a leaf at best, and like a leaf 
Must ultimately in corruption rot. 
And for a season gorge a reptile race. 

Leaves, autumn leaves ! why should I search the world 

For true religion ? In you I find a faith 

Worth all the vain religions in the world. 

Do ye not teach me to improve the time ? 

For time is brief, alike to leaf and man ; 

Doth not the sequel teach me to be humble. 

Which is the true nobility of soul ? 

Why then, my soul, should transitory things 

Thy thoughts usurp, when virtue's daisied path 

Will lead thee on to glory, life, and light — . 

The life and light of endless immortality ! 



ELSIE S CROSS. 



ELSIE'S CROSS. 



Upon her guileless bosom rests the gem 
Of purest silver, and with pebbles set ; 
Affection's most appropriate souvenir — 
A miniature of that which worlds worship, 
Before 'which angel and archangel kneel. 

The Cross ! insignia of true Catholicism, 
Broad base of faith ! Lo, what a sacred flood 
Of fond ideas rush upon the soul 
Contemplating the infinite love of Him 
Who bore the transversed beams to rocky Calvary 1 

Cross of the great Messiah ! Dost thou not 
Teach pompous man humility ? since he, 
Godhead and Monarch of unnumber'd worlds, 
Its agony endured, its shame despised — 
Who, for an erring, despicable race, 
To reconcile them to offended Deity, 
Suffered the hand to drive the pointed nail. 
And, in derision, place upon the brow, 
Divinely form'd, the tearing, thorny crown ; 
The spear to pierce the heart, from which there 

gush'd 
The atoning stream — a guilty world redeem' d. 
And made the meanest kings and priests to God ! 

Beats there within the human breast a heart 
So dead to feeling that it cannot glow, 



24 LA teste's poems. 

Nor tongue break forth, in rapturous hallelujalis — 
That homage due to such unbounded love ? 
Cross of the Son of God ! — conversion's source — 
Key to the door of heaven — more powerful than 
The mightiest pulpit eloquence e'er breathed 
By mortal lips — in thee our hope is fix'd. 

Fair wearer of the atoning gem ! I pray 
Long may it dazzle on thy gentle breast — 
A gift thou'rt proud to wear — not for its worth, 
But for the donor's sake, who breathes the wish — 
Ne'er may the world's sin thy soul enslave. 
Nor sorrow sear thy young heart's happy throbbing; 
And may thy multiplying years be fraught 
With that true bliss which never fails to shed 
A heavenly halo round the virtuous soul ; 
And, should the hour of trial come, oh ! may 
The Cross of Christ thy surest solace be. 



IN MEMOEIAM. 



Beyond the allotted span of hoary age. 

Yet vigorous to the last in mind and frame. 
He lived beloved, the esteem' d, the good old sage 

Of fourscore summers and an honour'd name. 
Broad was the circle of his friends and fame, 

As ripe in virtue as he was in years ; 
Gentle to all, benevolent to them 

When virtuous poverty approach'd in tears. 
His hand relieved their wants, his smile dispell'd their 
fears. 



THE KICK man's SOLILOQUY. 25 

No more the summer breeze shall wavy play 

With those white locks of eighty winters drear, 
Now pillow'd on the cold and clammy clay, 

The head all men delighted to revere. 
The eye's fond smile which e'er was wont to cheer, 

Will light no more benign the cloudiest day ; 
That voice of gentle tone we loved to hear, 

In the dull sleep of death is hush'd for aye — 
All, save that generous soul, hath pass'd into decay. 

Such was his charity of soul — to give — 

His left hand knew not what his right hand gave ; 
'Tis meet, indeed, such philanthropy live, 

Altho' that hand may perish in the grave. 
And eyes for him the saline drops shall lave, 

And hearts bleed for that heart which ne'er will 
bleed. 
Who made the feeble strong, the timid brave. 

With Christian counsel in the hour of need. 
Peace to thy noble soul, thou sage of noblest deed ! 



THE EICH MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 

Heavens ! how it blows, the elements are mad : 
Hark, how the hailstones patter on the glass ; 
Ah, 'tis a fearful night, and keen the frost. 
It must be cold without, but what care I, 
I feel it not before this blazing fire. 
I've dined upon the fattest and the best — 
Kich pheasant soup, fresh turbot, lobster sauce, 



26 LA teste's poems. 

Eoast beef, horse-raddish, and a chicken's wing, 

Minced pie, burnt brandy, Stilton cheese and cake, 

And now mine appetite is well appeased. 

What ! 0, a woman's voice singing in the street — 

Some wretched object of depravity. 

Her voice is softly sweet — I'll take the trouble 

To walk even to the window. There she is, 

0, what a miserable wretch she looks ! 

The rags that clothe her taint my very eye. 

What's that she's nestling in her breast ? a child ; 

Another imp is clinging to her side. 

White with the shower of hail that woke my reverie. 

I wonder what she is — some drunkard's wife — 

Perchance the cast-off beauty of a peer. 

She's gone — ah, well ; 0, 'tis a loathing sight 

To look upon the ragged, filthy, poor. 

I might have thrown the wretched hag a crown ; 

But did I dare to raise the window sash 

That blast so sharp might cut me into three. 

'T would be a blessed world if it were rid 

Of these obnoxious starving wretches, who 

Are such an eye-sore to the goodly rich. 

If I had but the power — I have the will — 

But never mind — I'll take another glass 

Of vintage forty-nine, my favourite claret ; 

111 light my Cuba, too — e'en now methinks 

I feel a most unpleasant odour, which 

I fancy I must surely have inhaled 

From that vile woman singing in the street. 

0, darling gold, thou'rt everything to me. 

For blessed, truly blessed are the rich ! 



all's well. 27 



ALL'S WELL, &c, &c. (New Play.) 

Dramatis PERSONiB. 
Blanche— A widow of property. 
Martha — Her maid. 

Roland — A handsome lawyer's clerk — very poor, and 
deep in debt. 
Scene — Widow's parlour. 

WiD. — A twelvemonth and a day, and I have worn 
This head-gear, Eoland calls a cauliflower. 
I'll wear 't no more ; there, let the flames consume 
Tliis melancholy emblem of my widowhood, 
And let my auburn locks hang unconfined. 
E'en as they did some sixty moons ago 
When my late lord first woo'd his blushing Blanche. 
This sombre garb I will exchange to-night 
For one of lighter shade — my new brown velvet. 
And did not Eoland swear, last time he call'd, 
Of all the hues> he lov'd the browns the best. 
Nor is it meet that I, fair, young, and affluent, 
Should sigh for ever for my defunct lord. 
Who was, when living, all the world to me ; 
But, dead, nought now to me, nor to the world. 
I'll weep no more for bones and dust — not I, 
His portrait hanging on the wall — ah me ! 
How those bright orbs do stare, as if they read 
The thoughts which now usurp my inmost soul : 
'Tis but a fancy — I will not be baulk'd, 
I'll have the gilded thing remov'd at once, 
E'en to the chamber where my lumber 's kept. 
Ho ! ho ! good Martha. 



28 LA teste's poems. 

{Enter Martha.) 

Maetha — Yes ! mim — Did ye call ? 

WiD. — I did, good Martha. Pray assist me down 
With this most precious counterfeit of him 
I loved so well — whose memory I revere. 
The dust, good Martha, and the summer flies 
Are ravaging the traces of his beauty. 
We 11 e'en remove it to an upper chamber, 
And let it be most carefully enwrapt 
In a large sheet of canvass. Ha ! a knock ! 
Hurry away the portrait, Martha, and 
Give answer to the summons. If it be 
Young Master Eoland, why, of course, you know 
He is my only friend, and may admit him. 

{Exit Martha.) 

(Enter Roland — approaching the widow.) 
EoL. — What ! weeping still, most beautiful of 
widows ? 
! will that saline reservoir never cease 
To flow transparent drops, which e'en have rooted 
The rose that bloom'd upon thy dimpled cheek ? 

WiD. — Deep is the sorrow of my heart, fair sir ; 
No balm, hov/ever pure or efiicacious, 
Can heal the widow's heart asunder torn. 
When all she lived for, loved in life, reposes 
In the dark confines of the silent tomb. 
The joy that once was mine, is mine no more ; 
Lonely I weep, and weeping lone, I feel 
My heart will never nurse a second love. 

KoL. — Sweet Blanche, fair Blanche, adorable of 
widows. 
Didst thou but know how fondly Eoland lo'es thee. 



THE ELGINSHIRE RIFLEMEN'S MARCH. 29 

Whose heart is in thy custody and keeping, 
Those lips of thine, which utter nought but truth, 
Would'st never have deliver'd words so cruel. 
Blanche, let thy snowy palm in mine repose, 
And say thoul't let me cheer thy loneliness. 
And be thy wedded husband to the death. 

(Roland takes the vMow's hand in his, she gives a nod of 
consent, and swoons upon his hosom.) 

(Martha at the key-hole.) 
Mar. — The lor-a-mercy, do my eyes deceive me ! — 
She who had sworn to live and die a widow. 
Must e'en go buckle with a lawyer's clerk ! 

(Scene closes.) 



THE ELGINSHIEE EIFLEMEN'S MARCH. 

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MAJOR JOHNSTON. 
Air—" Scots wba hae wi* "Wallace bled." 

Gallant sons of worthy sires — 
Guardians of our household fires ; 
Men unmatch'd in Scotia's shires, 

In valour peerless may ye be — 
While Scottish shores old ocean laves. 
While Freedom's banner o'er ye waves — 
What foe shall dare to make us slaves ? 

Scots were born to be free. 

March ye proudly, rank and file — 
Gallants bred on Moray's soil ; 
Brawny, bony, sons of toil' — 

Britain's bulwark true are ye. 



30 LA teste's poems. 

For love and homestead strike the blow — 
Tyrants and tyranny o'erthrow ; 
Where'er ye meet fair freedom's foe, 
Fire, gallant Scots, your musketry. 

The blood of warriors fills your veins, 
Which oft has dyed our Scottish plains — 
Preferring death than wear the chains 

Of gnawing, galling slavery. 
Fair freedom to our sires -was dear — 
Won by the claymore, dirk and spear ; 
Our war-cry be from van to rear — 

" Union, love, and libertie." 

While Johnston, knight-like, leads the van. 
And Menzies Duthil's kilted clan — 
The Monarch's eye may proudly scan 

Such loyal, stalwart infantry. 
While Lawson leads his yeoman band, 
A Wallace voice Spey braves command ; 
While fast Craigellachie shall stand. 

Who would slave or coward be ! 

Forres men of martial mien, 
Loyal hearts to home and Queen ; 
Blues of Lossie, stern but keen, 

Loud boom your brisk artillery. 
Men of the mountain and the glen, 
Who, fired by pipers martial strain — 
Yeomen bold of Pluscarden, 

Forward till our foemen flee. 



victoria's spinnin' wheel. 31 

Remem'ber Wallace, Bruce, and Clyde, 
Who for their country fought and died — 
And myriads more in prime and pride, 

Whose gore made fat the sterile lea. 
And beauty's lip shall breathe the prayer, 
And triumph sing the martial air — 
" None but the brave deserve the fair," 

Forward, then, to victory ! 



VICTORIA'S SPINNIN' WHEEL. 

TO HER MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY THE QUEEN. 

Nae laureate grand am I, my Queen, 

An' rude my rustic lyre ; 
Yet in my verse sometimes are seen^ 

Sparks o' poetic fire. 
Thy royal favour an' regard 

I crave not, but I feel 
'Tis richt a Deeside-born bard 

Should sing yer spinnin' wheel. 

Thy queenly foot hath trodden oft, 

At mornin', noon, an' night. 
The cot, the heath-roofd Belnacroft, 

Where I first saw the light. 
This mak's me, then, in heart a girl— 

A heart that lo'es thcB weel ; 
An' blythe I'd be to hear ye birl 

Yer bonny spinnin' wheel. 

May it, as seasons onward roll, 

A powerful solace prove ; 
Its music calm thy widow'd soul, 

And waft its thoughts above. 



32 LA teste's poems. 

Till soaring on a seraph's wing, 
Before His throne thou kneel, 

May angels holy anthems sing 
Around thy spinnin' wheel. 

Fly fancy, fly to courtly scenes 

Of regal pomp an' din, 
And tell the nations' gaudy queens 

Britannia's Queen can spin. 
She loves the worset hamespun greys 

That fills the furlin' reel ;— 
That hand a nation's sceptre sways. 

Can birl a spinnin' wheel. 

Loved by a people good an' brave, 

May peace for ever smile 
Bound thee an' thine, while ocean's wave 

Shall lave our own loved isle. 
The Scottish hearts for you wad bleed — 

Sae loyal, true, an' leal ; — 
There's nae a wife frae Skye to Tweed 

But loves yer spinnin' wheel. 

As for the Prince, I breathe this prayer— 

A Prince in soul an' mien : 
Lang may he live thy worthy heir. 

An' thou be still the Queen. 
An' when at last ye've spun life's warp. 

An' found a narrow biel, 
I pray, may an angel's harp 

Keplace yer spinnin' wheel ! 



THE HIGHLANDRS' WELCOME. 33 

A crown of glory, pure from Him, 

A diadem, whose rays 
Time nor eternity can dim 

The brilliance of its blaze. 
And re-united to a Prince — 

A soul that loved ye weel — 
And may thy people ages hence 

Adore yer spinnin' wheel. 
God Save the Queen ! 



THE HIGHLANDEES' WELCOME 

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS OF WALES. 

Hail I daughter of Denmark — adored of the Islanders, 

Hail spouse of the Prince, and thine infantine twain. 
Welcome are ye to the home of the Highlanders, 

The strath and the valley, the glade and the glen. 
Sublime in their grandeur, before and behind thee. 

The mountain, the moorland, and wild wavy Firth ; 
Say, doth not the scene in its beauty remind thee 

Of thine own rugged Denmark, the home of thy birth ? 

Hearts true as they're tender around thee are throbbin', 

Braves of the cloudy North, stormy and bare. 
Who watch and keep ward while it blooms at Dunrobin, 

The Eosebud of Britain — Alexandra the Fair. 
Be it ever the Highlander's glory and honour 

To guard to the death, as becometh the brave. 
The gem of the nation, while Scotia's broad banner 

And her rampant old lion o'er her thistle shall wave. 

c 



34 LA teste's poems. 

'Tis not thou'rt a Princess we prostrate before thee. 

With mein ever queenly, and voice ever kind ; 
'Tis not for thy beauty, ever fair, we adore thee, 

But a beauty more lasting — thy beauty of mind. 
'Tis not that a crown, gemm'd with diamonds most 
precious, 

Thy brow may encircle, as years onward roll ; 
"We love thee alone for thy smile ever gracious, 

Thy goodness of heart, and thy virtue of soul. 

We pray that those virtues, untainted, may never 

Know aught of decay as thy summers roll on ; 
May love, hope, and peace smile around thee for ever, 

Beloved of a people, and the Heir of a Throne. 
Daughter of Denmark, adored of the Islanders, 

A nation of braves bids thee hail ! ever hail ! 
Welcome are ye to the home of the Highlanders, 

To mountain and valley, to moorland and dell. 



THE OEANGE. 

TO MRS ANDEESOK 

Most gracefully she bent her head, as she was passing by. 
An orange in her kid-gloved hand, a smile shone from 

her eye. 
And with a voice of music said, mild as a murmuring 

sea, 
"Pray, La, accept this trifle for your little things from 

me." 
He took it with a grateful bow, for nothing could he say, 



THE ORANGE. 35 

But would have kiss'd the gentle hand which gave the 

gift away, 
'Twas not the value of the gift, it was the act alone — 
She spoke aboiit his little things in such a tender tone ; 
A thousand times it pleased him more, that voice of 

pure delight. 
Than all the plaudits he received within their hall that 

night. 
His heart was touch' d — their mother dead — the tear 

his eye made dim — 
He's father, mother, all to them, and they are all to him. 
There's nothing half so beautiful, in this sad vale of 

tears, 
As woman's charity to those in helpless infant years ; 
Our finest natures then are touched — glowing with a 

holy love 
We see the beauty of His truth — " Of such is heaven 

above." 
Love may be selfish to the last, and love is selfish ever, 
But in its golden heavenly sense fair Charity is never, 
'Twill melt the heart of sinful man, though hard as 

iron ore, 
'Twill bring a tear-drop from the eye that ne'er shed 

tear before. 
'Twas Charity redeem'd the world, and brought us back 

to God ; 

And Charity will take us yet to His redeemed's abode. 

Be still thy seat in woman's breast, until her latest day, 

And keep us, ever-erring men, in virtue's holy way. 

'Tis woman's charity alone can keep our souls from sin — 

And woman's charity as well those souls to heaven 

may win. 

^ c2 



36 LA teste's poems. 



THE LAMB OF THE FLOCK. 

Alas ! that I must ever sing of thee, 

Thou Terror King, destroyer of our race ; 
Thou wert, and art, and evermore shalt be, 

While sin, thy parent, finds on earth a place. 
'Tis sad the heavings of the heart's distress, 

The icy brow, white as a marble rock ; 
The quivering lip, sunk eye, and wasted face — 

'Tis terrible, indeed, thy final stroke ; 
'Twas thus ye dealt with him — ^lamb of a goodly flock. 

'Twas but the other Sabbath morn he kneel'd 

Before the holy altar of his God ; 
The other day his doom was early seal'd : 

To-night reposing 'neath the chilly sod. 
Few were his years, and short the path he trod 

To heaven — that heaven for which he often sigh'd : 
In his last hour he saw its bright abode — 

" I come, my Saviour, to thine arms," he cried ; 
Then like that Saviour, he bow'd his young head and 
died. 

All loved the boy, so gentle and so mild — 

A holy smile e'er lit his hazel eye. 
With wisdom far beyond that of a child, 

'Twas hard indeed that such a boy should die. 
Death had no sting for him — a Saviour nigh 



THE LAMB OF THE FLOCK. 37 

Had purged that soul, pure as the whitest fleece : 
He gave — he took away — then wherefore sigh ? 

Fair mother, listen, from thy sighing cease — 
His gentle soul hath found an everlasting peace. 

To Thy will, Father, be all flesh resign'd : 

We cannot tell how long life's sands may run : 
Guide us in virtue's path — for man is blind — 

And teach us how the way of vice to shun. 
Accept, Father, from an erring one 

A prayer ; and fervent is the prayer I make. 
As Thou hast taken to Thyself the son, 

! spare the father for the mother's sake, 
And in Thy goodness let liis lingering fever break. 

If this presumption be, do Thou forgive : 

Man's destiny is in Thy hand ; I know 
If thou hast said, " Thou shalt no longer live," 

Then to the grave mortality must go. 
Still, Thou art merciful — to anger slow. 

Thy loving-kindness calms our inward fears ; 
Through all the trials of our fate below 

Be still our comfort through the Vale of Tears — 
Like Hezekiah of old, ! lengthen Thou his years. 



38 LA teste's poems. 



THE MINSTEEL'S LAY. 

By the brook as it bubbled 'neath the wide weepin' 

willow, 
A Minstrel stood lone on its green grassy knoll, 
In fancy's wild flight far away o'er the billow, 
Wi' Lora, sweet Lora, the gem of his soul. 
Absorbed; o'er his harp-strings his fingers passed 

lightly. 
Till seraphs unseen o'er him hovered and hung, 
Like Judah's sweet harper, when stars sparkled 

brightly ; 
Sae dulcet, sae plaintive, sae mellow he sung — 

" Star o' the golden West, red in the lustre 
Of day's waning orb, whose refractory beams 
Illumine the land where a thousand Isles cluster, 
Where Lora, sweet Lora, awakes from her dreams. 
Star o' the golden West, to thee soars my spirit. 
To me dearer far than the day's ruddy break ; 
While Lora fair freedom's dear haunts still inherit, 
Land o' the rock, mountain, prairie, an' lake. 

" Lora, love ! Lora, love ! lonely, weary I wander 
'Neath the gemm'd blue infinite, twinkling brilliant 

above. 
Where the riU an' the burn blendin' saftly meander 
By the yew, ever sacred to sorrow an' love. 



THE minstrel's LAY. 39 

There's a gloom gnaws my soul, a forebodin' o' sorrow, 
My harp's happy melody melts on the wane ; 
A thought haunts my fancy that Lora, sweet Lora, 
Will never embrace the poor Minstrel again. 



" The darkness o' death in its gloom hovers o'er me, 
An' thou far away o'er the billowy sea, 
A cloud black as night passeth constant before me. 
That nought can dispel save the smile o' thine e'e. 
The star o' my hope thou wast ever, sweet Lora, 
In thy beauty come o'er the broad briny wave ! 
Wi' thy soft voice o' love soothe my soul's saddest 

sorrow, 
Or lay me to sleep in the depth o' the grave. 

" I care not for fame, nor the gold o' the realm, 

The flattery o' men, nor the smiles o' the fair ; 

What can they avail me when phantoms o'erwhelm 

My soul in the region o' doubt an' despair ? 

Lora, love ! Lora, love ! wilt thou never more, never 

Eeturn to a bosom e'er bleeding for you ? 

Hath thine oft plighted vow passed thy mem'ry for 

ever, 
Like the stream's airy bubble, or a jewel o' dew ?" 



Thus sang the young Minstrel alone in the even, 
As his last plaintive notes died away in the gloom ; 
A smile lit his face as he rais'd it to heaven. 
Like a moonbeam at night flitting over a tomb. 



40 LA teste's poems. 

For years he had sung by the bubblin' brook nightly, 
His genius had won him baith love an' a name ; 
Must the harp rot and rust he hath finger'd so lightly ? 
No ! why should he die in his zenith o' fame ! 

Hush ! heard ye a footstep approachin' the willow ? 
Or was it the zephyr's saft sough through the leaves ? 
No ! Lora, sweet Lora, hath braved the broad billow — 
Wi' the love o' langsyne how her fond bosom heaves ! 
In the starlight she stands in her beauty before him — 
She sigh'd his loved name on his breast as she lay — 
He lives and is blest ; and the phantoms which tore 

him 
In the light o' her hazel e'e melted away ! 



IN MEMOEIAM. 



One last fond look of love, and all was o'er ; 

Soft as a snowflake falling on a plume, 
Her clay-hued eyelid fell, to rise no more, 

Shading for ever in eternal gloom 
That once bright orb that failed not to illume 

A kindred soul in sorrow's dreary day — 
Alas ! that youth and beauty in the tomb 

Should fall so early victims to decay — 
All that is fair in life, untimely pass away ! 



IN MEMORIAM. 41 

'Twas thus with her — the young, the cherish'd wife, 

In womanhood's luxuriant, rosy noon — 
A life resign'd, giving to the world a life — 

Affection's sweetest pledge, heaven's priceless 
boon, 
A pledge, alas ! from which she had — too soon — 

To breath a melancholy, last farewell — 
Did not archangel with the soul commune 

"\Vhile entering on the dark and shadowy vale. 
Sad would the requiem be, an infant's plaintive wail ! 



Sleep on, fair mother, in thy lonely lair — 

No more the dawn of morn thine eye shall see, 
No rosebud deck again thy flowing hair. 

For summer flower no more shall bloom for thee ; 
No more upon the dew-bespangled tree 

Shall morning minstrel chant for thee his lay ; 
Years may roll on, and fraught with sorrow be, 

And flowers may bloom, and fade, and pass away ; 
But thy dear memory — to one — will ne'er decay ! 



42 LA teste's poems. 



THE HEEO'S EETURN. 

The conflict is o'er, liusli'd the cannon's hoarse roar, 

Sheath'd is the sword, red rebellion has ceas'd ; 
From war's bloody path, from the rebel's wild wrath 

The braves of the North, heaven at last has released. 
Thou land of my love, for a season we sever, 

To the Isle of my sires, o'er thy mountainous seas 
I go — to return — for I'll love thee for ever. 

While thy " star-spangled banner" flutters fair in the 
breeze ! 

Alone I must rove, for the friends of my love 

Have found in thy gory soil warriors' graves — 
As we fought in our might, for thy Union and right, 

And that cause ever holy — the freedom of slaves : 
^Proudly we dash'd through their shells, as they tore us, 

Onward, triumphant, in blood to the knees ; 
We thought not of death, while thy flag floated o'er us. 

Thy " star-spangled banner" streaming bright in the 
breeze ! 

When blood flow'd like water, in the murderous 

slaughter, 
Thy stars, fairest banner, cheer'd the souls of the 

dying ; 
We fear'd not their shells, nor their demon-like yells, 
We saw in the Grant our far-famed Scottish Lion. 



THE hero's return. 43 

When night clothed in darkness tlie thousands of dead, 
On the blood-clotted field we reposed at our ease — 
For we knew that the " stripes" were the rebels du'e 
dread, 
Thy " star-spangled banner" waving high in the 
breeze ! 
At dawning of morn, like mow'd acres of corn, 

Pale, ghastly in death lay the braves of the North ; 
And the wails of the dying, blent with woman's soft 
sighing — 
O God ! it was trying — as their life's blood ebb'd 
forth: 
Torn, bleeding in death lay the son and the sire, 
A scene of rank murder would the hottest blood 
freeze — 
'Twas this urged us on to revenge doubly dire, 

And the " star-spangled banner" waving light in the 
breeze ! 

Land of the freemen, of warrior, and seamen. 

United, no Power could thy bravery withstand ; 
Thou clime ever fair, from my soul comes the prayer — 

May rebellion no more fan its flame in thy land. 
Be ever the refuge of the world's opprest — 

Free ye the slaves, and be Queen of the Seas : 
A people united, by Omnipotence blest. 

While thy " star-spangled banner" streams aloft in 
the breeze ! 



44 LA teste's poems. 



ROUALEYN NO MORE. 

Bards of the mountain North, bards of green Moray, 

Strike ye your golden lyres — sad be the strain ; 
Piper, plaided and plumed, blow thy wailings of sorrow, 

Eor the good and the gallant w^e shall ne'er see again. 
Ah ! who like the Gumming — in valour the peerless, 

With the heart of a lion, yet a lamb at the core ; 
The Nimrod of Afric, the dauntless, the fearless, 

Earth hath not thy pattern — Roualeyn no more. 

As generous in soul as majestic in stature, 

Beloved, and at all times the friend of the poor ; 
That framework may moulder — the gifted of Nature — 

But in Moray thy memory will ever endure. 
Generations in embryo will read thy life's story — 

The deeds thou achieved on the wild Afric shore ; 
And bards yet unborn will rehearse in their glory 

The famed lion-hunter — Roualeyn no more. 

Peace, peace to thy spirit, that spirit imperial. 

Generous alike to thy friend or thy foe ; 
Songsters of heaven, in the sky-blue ethereal 

Sing ye his requiem softly and low. 
Bards of the mountain North, doleful in wailing, 

His early, untimely dissolution deplore ; 
Weep, weep ye wild hunters ! In St Michael's lone 
dwelling 

Sleeps your best and your bravest — Roualeyn no 
more. 



DREAMING. 45 



DREAMING. 

1 am dreaming, ever dreaming, 

Where thy happy home can be 
Amid the silvery gleaming 

Of those thousand worlds I see. 
Noon, night, and morn I ponder. 

But my fancy cannot trace, 
For my soul is lost in wonder 

In the broad expanse of space. 

I can see thee, when I'm sleeping — 

! how beautiful and bright — 
Like an angel round me sweeping 

In thy robe of seraph white ; 
TiU my heart with joy goes leaping, 

And in ecstacy I wake, 
While a holy calm comes creeping 

O'er that heart, though like to break. 

In my solitude reclining 

On the old couch — even now, 
With the autumn young moon shining 

O'er my wan and wrinkled brow, — 
Fancy paints thy glorious figure, 

Like the morn thou wer't a bride. 
So happy, young, and eager, 

With thy babies by thy side. 



46 LA teste's poems. 

There, clinging to her mother, 

Is the fair-haired, rosy Clar, 
See, her daring little brother, 

How he leaps from star to star ; 
And the twain untimely given 

And who sojourned but a day, 
Sport in their native heaven. 

Thro' that better " Milky Way." 

And now thou art embracing 

Those pure tiny forms, so light. 
And the boy rests from his racing 

On yon cloud so fleecy white ; 
Look ! he's up again, and climbing 

For his mother's tender kiss — 
Ah, how mine eyes are swimming ! 

Is there aught on earth like this ? 

I can see thee point thy finger— 

Thou art beckoning me come, 
Ah, ye wonder why I linger — 

Why the voice ye loved is dumb ; 
Not yet— a little longer — 

Ere I drink the bitter cup. 
Till the twain ye left are stronger, 

Till the motherless get up. 

0, were I now to leave them 
To the world's care and wreck. 

How sadly it would grieve them. 
And their little hearts would break, 



DREAMING. 47 

And pine thro' cold and hunger, 

For the best of friends forget ; 
no ! a little longer, 

For I dare not leave them yet. 

When a few short years are over. 

When they reach to womanhood. 
As truthful as their mother, 

And as beautiful and good. 
Making happy other bosoms 

With the heart's devoted love, 
When they nourish other blossoms, 

Then I'll come to thee above. 

0, let me not in sickness 

Linger but a little while, 
And cheer me in my weakness 

With thy holiest angel smile ; 
In the stillness of the even, 

Quickly come that heavenly birth. 
Like the lightning's flash from heaven 

Be my exit from the earth. 

When the maid the corn gleaneth. 

When the shepherd folds his sheep, 
When the moon is in the zenith,* 

When the world is hushed in sleep, 
With the angel be thou nearest 

When he severs soul from clay, 
Then take me with thee, dearest. 

To thy realms of love and day. 



48 LA teste's poems. 



THE "HOMEWARD BOUND." 

Gently blow the breezes o'er thee, 

Loved one from the golden West ; 
Light throb thy heart, love leaps before thee, 

Welcome to his longing breast, 
Calm be thy bosom, wavy ocean, 

Hush thy billows' maddening roar ; 
Swiftly glide, with gentle motion. 

Fairy barque, to Albion's shore. 

Play, ye zephyrs, fondly, lightly, 

'Mid her swelling, snowy shrouds ; 
Hover o'er her warmly, brightly, 

Eleecy-tinged, vermilion clouds. 
Sing, jolly tars, your song most dulcet ; 

Chorus, little cabin boy ; 
On the deck, blue jackets waltz it, 

"Fore" and " aft," reign rosy joy. 

Gambol round her, merry dolphin. 

Rolling thro' the milky spray ; 
Mermaid, with your locks so elfin, 

Chant thy plaintive, midnight lay. 
Little songster, faint with flying, 

Journeying to some sunnier land ; 
One soft note to cheer the sighing, 

Ere your wing again expand. 



THE HOMEWARD BOUND. 49 

Rise, Neptune, from thy watery haven, 

Venus hails thee from the deck ; 
! nightly shine, ye beauteous seven. 

Till Aurora morning wake. 
Up, glorious Luna, smile, delighted. 

Encircling with thy silvery zone ; 
The " Homeward Bound," the good ship freighted, 

With joyous hearts, and one his own. 

Friends on shore are fondly dreaming 

Of the bliss they cannot hide ; 
Fancy paints her pennant streaming 

As she breasts the river's tide — 
Nearer, clearer, havenward riding, — 

Sunny faces hopely gleam ; 
Breasts are bursting, tear-drops gliding, 

How they bless thee. Power Supreme. 

Who can describe the holy pleasure 

The soul's sweet rapture, fond and true, 
When it has found its long lost treasure. 

When hopes long dead awake anew ! 
Gently blow the breezes o'er thee. 

Wanderer from the distant West ; 
The heart from which fate cruelly tore thee. 

Be thine for ever — blest and best. 



50 LA teste's poems. 



THE FLUNKEY'S EECOMMENDATION. 

Please, Mister Grubb, excuse this letter 
I send you here by Will, the waiter, 
Who tells me that ye wish to see. 
Some Deerfoot biped, such as he. 
He's written prose until he's sick. 
From day to day and week to week. 
Applying, longing for a place. 
But still it seems without success. 
He's got a notion in his head, 
To try a little rhyme instead ; 
Advertisements in verse, he says, 
Are all the fashion now-a-days. 
If I, your bard, would recommend him, 
Luck will, he's sure, at last befriend him ; 
So, Mister Grubb, to please the man, 
Some dozen lines I've deigned to scan, 
And if ye keep him, and agree, 
I'm sure he'll suit ye to a T. 

His character for some years back 
Has sometimes had a tinge of black. 
Though I believe 'twas undeserved : 
From duty's path he seldom swerved ; 
But when the tongues of malice riot. 
What can one do, but just keep quiet ? 
Believing still that things will mend. 
Sooner or later in the end. 



THE flunkey's RECOMMENDATION. 51 

Even Sol himself is full of spots, 
If we believe what Newton quotes ; 
And flunkies are not, I aver. 
Like Eoman P.'s, who cannot err. 

In personal appearance, he 
Is almost faultless, as you'll see. 
With nobby head of dark-brown hair, 
And bushy beard — complexion fair ; 
A well-developed intellectual, 
An eye whose smile is all-effectual. 
With Eoman nose and ruddy cheek — 
In fact, good-looking, so to speak. 
In manner, affable and gay ; 
In temper, mild as early May ; 
A person neat, although not tall. 
Made him respected in the hall. 
What though at times he did presume, 
When in the old housekeeper's room. 
To kiss the maid. Miss Fiddle-de-dee ? 
Pooh ! what is that to you or me ? 
For flunkies too, like other men, 
Will play the gallant now and then. 

He's pass'd through all the various grades 

In flunkey-craft — its lights and shades — 

From lady's page to footman's plush ; 

From butler's rouge to valet's brush — 

To travelling courier has aspired. 

And femme de chamhre when required. 

He'll hook a gown or pin a plaid. 

As well as Prim, my lady's maid ; 

d2 



52 LA teste's poems. 

And, hark ! he'll keep a secret too, 
Which Mademoiselle cannot do ; 
In short, a thorough-bred indoor, 
As good as any would-be four. 

He spent abroad part of his youth, 

Amid the vineyards of the South ; 

Where glorious Gironde rolls and twines 

Through fig-tree groves, and clustering vines ; 

Where all is fair to charm the eye, 

Where poets ought to live and die. 

I would advise our Laureate Tenn., 

To sojourn there some months, and then 

He may, ere he resume the lyre. 

Find what he wants, the poet's fire. 

Pardonnez moi, mon ton ami, 
Where left we Will ? O yes, I see. 
That he behaved himself whilst there. 
Some documents I've seen declare. 
Except some flirting with Bonnelle, 
But — bah ! it ain't worth while to tell ; 
And flunkies are not wood or stone. 
But feel like other flesh and bone ; 
And will at times break reason's rules. 
And fall in love, like greater fools — 
'Tis all the same to Cupid's dart, 
The monarch or the menial's heart. 

He's spent in Paris, ever gay. 
Ah ! many a happy, merry day ; 



THE FLUNKEY S RECOMMENDATION. 

For he was valet some time there, 
To Monsieur Consul d'Angleterre. 
When Nap. was chosen by his clique 
President de la Eepublique, 
Ere he the Imperial purple wore, 
Or France's rich regalia bore. 

Was waiter, too, in Maurice Hotel, 
Eue Eivolia — I know the spot well — 
That grand resort, that central goal, 
Of every nation under Sol. 
The white-faced Cockney dawdles there, 
Though lank and lean, with jaunty air ; 
The swarthy Dutch, the grizzly Euss ; 
The heroic Pole, the wily Pruss ; 
The Austrian knave, the Chinese drone ; 
The Turk, with jewell'd pipe of bone ; 
The Swiss, in hat and feather deck'd ; 
The Spaniard, with his form erect ; 
The Italian, graceful and refined ; 
The classic Greek, with lofty mind ; 

The Yankee, strutting in his brown, 
As if the world were all his own ; 
The Hottentot, with monster hip ; 
The Negro Prince, v/ith ditto lip ; 
The red Hindoo, all stone and pearl, 
With diamond rings might buy an Earl ; 
The mild Norwegian, hardy Swede ; 
The noble Dane, of doughty deed ; 
Circassia's chief, proud in his might ; 
And even the Lap, of Elfin height ; 



54 LA teste's poems. 

The Arab from the desert's sand, 
And Israel's son from Judah's land ; 
The Perse in Oriental style ; 
With Patrick from the Emerald Isle ; 
And last, not least, of noble note, 
The manly, envied, kilted Scot, 
With face so ruddy, frank, and fair, 
The loved of all the ladies there. 
With such a miscellaneous crew 
Had honest Will, our friend, to do ; 
But Will was willing, and he did it. 
Which added greatly to his credit. 



He's travelled merry England through, 

From Dover white to Cheviot blue ; 

Old foggy London well he knows. 

Street, lane, and square, its mews and rows ; 

The parks, the palace — well he may — 

He plusli'd it there for many a day ; 

He knew what London life was then. 

From princely court to brothel den ; 

For flunkies have their ups and downs. 

As well as more important clowns. 

He's brush'd the boots of England's Queen, 

And in the treadmill often been. 

But not for crime of any shade. 

But for an honest bit of bread. 

When out of place, and low in stock. 

He work'd as labourer in the dock, 

For rather than go idle, he 

Would navvie turn, or tinker be ; 



THE flunkey's RECOMMENDATION. 55 

And fortune, wantonly it seems, 
Has form'd him for her rare extremes— 
The one week starch'd behind my lady, 
The next, fore-hammering in a smiddy. 

Fox-hunting coming on apace, 

He's just the man to suit your place ; 

He's followed oft His Grace's hounds 

Througli Warwick fields and Leicester grounds. 

His master swore he was the best 

That ever daub'd in breeches paste ; 

He was a devil, too, to please, 

But Will could manage him with ease. 

The nobbiest rider at the meet, 

Was Honourable Mister Fleet ; 

With scarlet coat without a speck. 

And breeches like his lady's neck. 

With boots of jet, and tops of brown, 

And plated spurs direct from town. 

On bay or black ye would not see 

A tighter, cleaner, squire than he. 

You'll find him handy dans la cuisine, 
If cook be ill or out of season ; 
He'll roast a goose or bake a pie, 
He'll jug a hare or do a fry ; 
And if ye like a rich ragout, 
He's just the chap to make a stew. 
He'll kill a pig or skin a lamb, 
Then tan the hide, and cure the ham ; 
He'll make a salad that will beat 
Old Soyer himself, 'tis such a treat ; 



66 LA teste's poems. 

I've seen the ladies by the score 
Wink sly at Will to hand them more ; 
Roast hceuf et mouton sans la salade, 
Are tasteless as a sung-out ballad. 

Pic-nicking, boating, racing, calling. 

Shopping, dining out, and balling ; 

Young ladies must, and will do these, 

Which make papa oft ill at ease. 

Pray, Mister Grubb, don't let them bore ye. 

Give him the job, he'll do it for ye ; 

He'll please them when no other can, 

For Will is quite the ladies' man ; 

He'll take them out, and bring them home. 

All safe and cosy in your brougham. 

He's perfect in the vaults below. 
He learn'd with Kutelier, Lohe, & Co., 
A Bordeaux house famed for its wine. 
Dear Medoc's richest, choicest vine. 
He'll bottle, cork, and bin as well, 
Or brew a cask of decent ale. 
He's not a lazy, sloven man — 
The case, indeed, with most the clan — 
He's early at it with the linnet. 
Punctual in all things to a minute ; 
So, Mister Grubb, I must conclude — 
Engage the man, he's very good. 



THE DUTHIL MEN'S MARCH. 57 

THE DUTHIL MEN'S MAECH. 

(RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO CAPTAIN MENZIES.) 

March ! Duthil men, march in your proud array, 

March to the pibroch's soul-stirring strain ; 
March ! Duthil men, march with a loud hurrah ! 
Men of the mountain — ye are the men. 
Shoulder your arms, let the banner be unfurl'd. 

Bare knee'd and broad chested — draw, leader, thy 
blade, 
'Tis the Highlander's passport all over the world, 
The bonny blue bonnet, the kilt and the plaid. 

I've stood by the ranks of an Emperor's legions, 

Admiring the strength of his gaudy dragoons ; 
But where will ye find in the world's wide regions, 

Warriors so stalwart as our ain Highland loons ? 
The bulwark of Britain — the jewels of the nation — 

The prop of the throne — the beloved of a Queen ; 
Men that would trample on the neck of oppression, 

Lion-hearted in battle, in love like a wean. 

March ! Duthil men, march in your proud array, 
March to the pibroch's soul-stirring strain ; 

March ! Duthil men, march with a loud hurrah ! 
Men of the mountain — ye are the men. 

Ye recal, as ye march, our forefathers' proud bearing, 
As they fought round the standard of freedom and 
fame ; 

Men fearless in danger, unequall'd in daring, 
Whose breasts ever burn'd in liiir liberty's flame, 



58 LA teste's poems. 

Sway thy sceptre in peace, widow'd Queen of tlie 
islanders, 
Thy throne is establish'd for centuries of years ; 
While ye live, as ye do, in the hearts of the High- 
landers, 
Thy guard ever loyal — the brave mountaineers. 

March ! Duthil men, march in your proud array, 
March to the pibroch's soul-stirring strain ; 

March ! Duthil men, march with a loud hurrah ! 
Men of the mountain — ye are the men. 

Be proud of thy clansmen, old dear mother Scotland, 

Men of the mountain, the heather and glen ; 
From Tweed's verdant border to Orkney's remote land 

May the kilt of our forefathers liourish again. 
Tis the love of our maidens, those gems of creation — 

Eugenie herself to the tartan is true ; — 
'Tis the garb, my brave boys, of an unconquer'd nation, 

Then hurrah for the plaidy and the bonnets o' blue. 

March ! Duthil men, march in your proud array, 
March to the pibroch's soul-stirring strain ; 

March ! Duthil men, march with a loud hurrah ! 
Men of the mountain — ye are the men. 

Shoulder your arms, let the banner be nnfurl'd, 

Bare knee'd and broad chested — draw, leader, thy 
blade, 

'Tis the Highlander's passport all over the world, 
The bonny blue bonnet, the kilt and the plaid. 



OSCAR OF THE MOUNT. 59 



OSCAE OF THE MOUNT (A MANIAC), AND 
THE SPIKIT OF THE SEER. 

" 'Tis midniglit now, dull, dark, and drear, 

Alas ! midnight indeed to me — 
Come forth thou spirit of the Seer, 

'Tis gloomy Oscar calls on thee. 
Behold the bard whose lay ye praised 
In galling chain, cursed, caged, and crazed." 

The raving Oscar said, and lo ! 

So Samuel-like — in form of man, 
Appear'd the Spirit, white as snow. 

With silvery locks and face so wan — 
Smiled on the bard, a smile divine, 
With look so pitying and benign. 

" Why call'st thou, Oscar, at this hour, 

A Spirit from the dark abyss ? 
Dost thou not fear a Spirit's power 

In such a dismal den as this ? 
Speak, Oscar, what thou hast to speak, 
For I must hence at morning streak." 

" Afraid ! ha ! ha ! of what afraid ? 

You — Spirit of the mighty Seer ! 
Nay, though thy substance from the dead 

Eose ghastly there, I would not fear, 
I call'd thee in my raving ire, 
To tell thee, Spirit, thou'rt a liar. 



60 LA teste's poems. 

" Where now tliine astrologic lore. 
Thy wondrous planetary themes ? 

Thy famous prophecies of yore, 

And where are all my golden dreams ? 

And what thy splendid horoscopes 

But falsehoods fell, and blighted hopes ? 

" Is this the flowery path to fame. 

The dungeon's gloom — the keeper's blow, 

And where is now that honour'd name 
Prognosticated long ago ? 

That star hath not arisen yet. 

That star ye swore would never set. 

'' And where the boasted laurel wreath, 
That was to grace my burning brow ? 

Ha ! faded like this wither'd heath 
That constitutes my couch e'en now. 

And where the lily hand so fair. 

Ye said would weave that garland there ? 

" Have my forefathers murderers been ? 

And dying unpunish'd for their crimes, 
That I must suffer pangs so keen, 

For others sins of by-gone times. 
Humiliation sickening sad 

God ! to think that Oscar's mad ! 

" I tell thee, Spirit, 'tis a lie, 
A fancy wild as winter's wind, 

1 am not mad ; O, no ! not I ; 

'Tis love hath darken'd Oscar's mind. 



OSCAR OF THE MOUNT. 61 

Ha ! dost tliou laugh — curse on the inoru 
That I, the wretched bard was bom." 



" Hush ! Oscar, hush, my son, be still, 
I smiled to see thy want of faith ; 

What heaven hath writ thou inust fulfil. 
Ere thou shalt taste the gall of death. 

Hast thou forgot the word of God — 

The loved He chasteneth with his rod ? 



" Peace ! Oscar, calm thy raving soul, 
An ear unseen hath heard thy prayer ; 

My son^ thou'rt under heaven's control. 
Thy name is as familiar there 

Where seraphs sing and angels tread, 

As if thou wer't already dead. 

" Thy night of sorrow soon shall pass, 
Life, love, and reason reign anew — 

I see, though darkly through a glass, 
A glorious future dawn for you, — 

Thy star is in its zenith blaze — 

'Tis only clouds obstruct its rays. 

" Those clouds will soon be scatter'd wide. 
Before the bracing breeze of fame ; 

Thy long lost love return a bride — 

Whose breast e'er burn'd in love's pure flame- 

The favourite of Uranus' ray, 

Hath long since set and passed away. 



62 LA teste's poems. 

" Be not to desperation driven — 
My son, thy destiny on earth 

Was written in the stars of heaven 
A thousand years before thy birth — 

Curse not, but bravely tread the road 

That leads to glory and to God. 

" Drink, Oscar, drink this ruddy draught, 
A nectar from the spirit land — 

Bright dreams of love thy soul will waft 
Through starry worlds eternal, grand ; 

Drink thou, my son, 'tis Gilead's Balm, 

'Twill heal thy heart — thy soul 'twill calm. 

" The cock has crow'd, Oscar adieu. 

She comes to sooth, to save, to greet — 
My son, I vanish from thy view, 

Till spirit kindred spirit meet, 
In yonder brilliant, starlit zone. 
Where sin and sorrow are unknown." 

" Adieu ! that thy words were truth, 
And ceased this mad consuming pain — 

I'll drink the draught, though I, in sooth, 
Should sleep and never w^ake again ; 

Nectar divine ! balmy bliss — 

An angel's lip hath sipp'd of this. 

" Cool as the dew of autumn morn. 
It acts upon my fevered brain — 

Hush ! on the breeze a song is borne. 
It surely is an angel's strain ; 

Look, seraph, with a pitying eye, 

Or let the wandering Oscar die." 



MY OLD SOFA. 63 



MY OLD SOFA. 

Amongst old folks, it seems a general rule 

To have a fancy for a chair or stool — 

A certain something, and it must be gotten, 

It matters not how ricketty and rotten ; 

They'd rather stand from dawn to dusk than sit 

On aught beside, save that particular it ; 

And 'tis but right old folk should have their way, 

As mind and matter equally decay. 

I knew a fellow well, old Thimble Squadders, 

Who'd sit on nothing but a bunch of bladders — 

Secured behind, well blown, and tied air-tight. 

Bulky indeed, but very, very light. 

His grand idea was, poor Thim, alas ! 

His sitting part was made of Stafford glass. 

And hence the reason why he stow'd behind 

A dozen bullocks' bladders full of wind ; 

He found them very comfortable articles. 

And sav'd the part from being smash'd to particles. 

I, too, for my old sofa have a rage — 

'Tis like enough the infirmity of age, 

Or second childhood gently creeping on, 

I'll sit on nothing else but it alone. 

I love the dear old thing, though now thread-bare, 

No wonder — thirty years of tear and wear ; 

My certy ! 'tis a long time, sure enough, 

And were it not the very best of stuff 

It might have been, perchance, for aught I know, 

Pawn'd, burned, or broken many years ago. 



64 LA teste's poems. 

'Tis a stout piece of furniture by Mac, 

And stuff'd with chaff, not down, both ends and back. 

I'm not afraid to write the truth — not I ; 

You'll never catch me fabricate a lie — 

Lies ! how I hate them — for I've always had 

A dreadful horror of their dingy dad. 

I love my so£, I'll love it to the last. 

While soft associations of the past 

Cast o'er my soul their melancholy shade 

Of those long gone, the loved, the honour'd dead. 

Moreover, 'tis the only thing I call 

The last remaining remnant of my all. 

My other furniture — effects — ahem ! 

Went to the hammer, or — it's all the same, 

And shall we part ? no, by the rood, not we, 

I'll stick to it while it shall stick to me, 

'Tis such a very handy thing indeed 

And suits all purposes, as you may read. 

I live in't, grub in't, drink in't, sleep in't, 

Think in't, rock in't, laugh in't, weep in't, * 

Compose in't, read in't, write in't, scheme in't, 

Loll in't, sing in't, yawn in't, dream in't, 

Smoke in't, snuff in't, scratch in't, box in't. 

Kiss in't, kick in't, cuddle in't, coax in't. 

Wash in't, wink in't, shave in't, dress in't, 

Brag in't, brawl in't, ban in't, bless in't. 

Giggle in't, grin in't, frisk in't, tumble in't. 

Purr in't, pray in't, growl in't, grumble in't, 

Greet in't, sigh in't, souch in't, hddle in't, 

Whistle in't, dance in't, drum in't, diddle in't. 

Why, I could fill, if it might please ye, gents, 

A thousand Journals with a million irtts. 



MY OLD SOFA. 65 

Hold on, I've said enough, and more to shew 

How much one may admire a greasy " so." 

Though old and rotten now, it once was new, 

'Tis had its hey-day — so have some of you ; 

What though 'tis patched with corduroy and rags. 

And pieces torn from old guano bags ? 

I beg to state I love it none the less 

Than when it shone in velveteen and lace. 

These two last words, the adjective and noun, 

I see they sound the same, but since they're down. 

Why, never mind them, don't kick up a row. 

I haven't time to alter words just now ; 

'Tis somewhat past the hour, the school is in. 

And I, the Dominie, must e'en begin. 

I've made my mind up, having nought, ye know, 

To leave beliind — to take it down below ; 

I'll want no coffin, and 'tis just my fit, 

The son of Saul may bury me in it ; 

For peoplte, pious, wise, prognosticate. 

That that will ultimately be my fate. 

No matter, gentlemen, I have no fears, 

A pauper's grave will suit as well's a peer's, 

For peer and pauper rot alike, we're sure. 

And even that's a comfort to the poor. 



Q6 



MY OLD AEM CHAIR 

Let Mussulman on ottoman recline, 

The pamper'd rich on rose-leaved ]DiUows pine ; 

Let Beauty, 'mid her silken cushions loll — 

Time murderess — a thing with little soul ; 

Give Potentate his velvet-stuffed sedan, 

With down which clad the snowy-bosom'd swan. 

Let them inhale the odours wealth commands — 

The rich perfumes of oriental lands ; 

Give all they term luxuriant and fare, 

But give to me my glorious old arm chair. 

With what delight I long for setting day. 

And in its semi-circle lounge away 

The evening hours, freed from the active toil 

Of busy life, its battle and its broil. ♦ 

In it, I feel home has a double charm — 

Its well-stuff'd back and fleecy sides so warm ; 

What languishing sensations of delight 

My wearied limbs experience night by night ; 

As Goldsmith hath it, in his village lay — 

" It proves a couch by night, a chair by day." 

A prince might truly envy my repose — 
The gentle rock — the child-like dreamy dose ; 
The well-fiU'd 'grate before me, blazing bright — 
The old clock's tick — the gloss of lively light ; 
The purr of puss — the kettle's merry song — 
The smile of age — the music of the young ; 



MY OLD AKM CHAIK. 67 

Blest elements which banish dastard care, 
Which throw a halo round my old arm chair. 

With what delight I nightly ponder o'er 
The deep- writ page of philosophic lore ; 
Science, politics, and art's increasing sway, 
With all the wondrous topics of the day ; 
And above all, as wanes the evening hour, 
Lively I feel religion's soothing power. 

What soft ideas one by one arise, 

What glorious spectres float before mine eyes, 

As mem'ry, retrograding, skims the, past — 

" The light of other days" too bright to last. 

Pictur'd afresh each rosy scene appears, 

The love and glory of my boyhood's years — 

The wavy fields, with shady lanes between, 

The chuj'ch, the school, the mill, the village green. 

The straw-roof'd cot, how vividly I view 

The honeysuckle round its porch which grew ; 

Its windows, diamond-paned, with snowy blinds, 

Where roses dangled in the morning winds. 

And from its wooden " lum" at dawn of morn. 

The curling peat reek on the breezes borne ; 

The broom-thack'd stack of turf, the duck's quagmire. 

The bubbling spring behind the clay built byre. 

There, in the centre of the auld kail-yd,rd, ' 
Where gowans gem a square of bleaching sward, 
Stands the old dial, which marks the hour of day, 
Worm-eaten now, and rotting in decay. 

e2 



68 LA teste's poems. 

Down in the dell, when first I fann'd the flame 
Of youthful love, the bourtree blooms the same, 
Most beautifully white, beneath whose shade 
I clasp'd my loving, rosy, rustic maid. 
I hear the sighing of the willow-trees. 
Blent with the humming of assiduous bees — 
The murmuring burny's distant gurgling tide, 
The lambkins bleating on the mountain side. 
The carolling lark, mid air, the merlin's ring, 
The red corn-craik, with dew bespangled wing ; 
The watch-dog's bark, and in the midnight hour 
The screeching owl, nestled on the mouldering tower. 
Such are the raptures I experience there, 
Ensconced, half-dreaming, in my old arm chair — 
Till in a soothing melancholy joy, 
I wake, and wish I were again a boy. 

Ah ! many a year hath pass'd away since then. 

Battling alike with life, with things and men ; 

And with them too, have passed those aged sires, 

The venerated of our household fires. 

And friends I loved in youth's luxuriant bloom. 

Have long become dull tenants of the tomb — 

Time wanes apace — the night of death creeps on. 

And I must follow those already gone ; 

The baubles of my youth have pass'd away, 

My locks assume a venerable grey. 

As circling years increase the woes of age, 

More holy, heavenly thoughts my soul engage — 

And looking for that rest beyond despair, 

I find a Zion in my old arm chair. 



DEACON DOROTHY'S ADVICE. 69 



DEACON DOROTHY'S ADVICE, OR THE 
ROAD TO PREFERMENT. 

Ye're stytin aboot aye, as black as a slae, 

As hungry 's a tiger a week without prey ; 

As raggit's a tinker, as rough as a carter, 

As soulless an' glum as a kirkyaird deserter ; 

Ye'r nasal extremity inch thick wi' sneeshin, 

Waddlin awa' wi' a penny petition ; 

Ye'r pow like a wisp, an' ye'r blinkers half-sunk, 

Wi' legs scarce can carry their skeleton trunk, 

A beard, 'maist Samsonian, sae knottit an' thready, 

Micht weel stuff a cushion for the lord or the lady ; 

Sae miserably fu'some, sae pimpled an' warty, 

Ye look like a gran'son o' Mistress Maclarty. 

'Tis but what ye deserve, blame yersel' for the choice, 

For ye never wad listen to the deacon's advice ; 

Egad ! I jalouse ye're beginnin' to see 

I'm no sic a fool as ye thocht me to be. 

Ye're morally gude, I'm convinced o' the fack. 

But what aboot that when ye're nae worth a plack ; 

Ye'r talents — what are they ? a fluff o' the wind, 

It's siller that's wantit — a fig for the mind. 

I ken ye'r straucht-forrit, wi' honest intention, 

(Whilk Hades is paved wi' — as somebody mentions) ; 

Leal-heartit eneuch, wi' a conscience like snaw. 

But what does't amount to ? whew ! naething ava. 

Tak' the word, Willie man, o' an auld crafty carl. 

It's the gowd, not the gifts, that's estcem'd i' the warl ; 



70 LA teste's poems. 

Hoo aft hae I tried to impress on ye'r mental 
L.S.D., &c., and an incomin' rental. 
Gin ye wish to be laird o' a ledger an' Ian', 
Ye maun e'en gang anitlier than the road y e' ve been gaim ; 
Hoo acquired, never trouble yer cranium a hair. 
Get the gear, man, the gear, by foul means or fair, 
ISTever dream o' remorse, faith it's unco unpleasant. 
Never think o' hereafter — mak' the best o' the present ; 
And ye're name, as a Dives, man, will live in futurity, 
While talents and truthfulness rot in obscurity. 
Ye may hint aboot hard honest toil being healthy, 
Will twal paltry shillins a week mak ye wealthy ? 
Ye may sweat like a nag ca'in peats frae the bog. 
An' live on bear brochan, then die like a dog. 
Gin ye wishna the pleasure o' a dog-like interment, 
Ye maun e'en tr}^ the auld deacon's road to preferment ; 
I fand that the man wi' his sleeves tuckit up. 
Though he toiled ear' an' late had but little to sup. 
That the swell wi' gowd chain an' a glossy black coat, 
Was the man maist respeckit, though nae worth a groat ; 
His appearance a fause lowe o' frien'ship cud kindle. 
Had the gift o' the gab, could dissemble an' swindle. 
I thocht I micht try the same function as weel. 
Cheat, grab, an' embezzle, beg, borrow, an' steal ; 
I embraced it, an' stuck till't, like rozit to twine, 
Ye're awaur hoo weel, Will, I hae flourish'd sin syne. 
My wife, like a duchess in sleek satin dresses. 
My loons claed like princes, my lassies princesses. 
My ambition was aye to be something or somebody, 
Dine like a lord and get drunk on rum toddy. 
An' weel I've succeeded wi' my brakin' an' boltin'. 
I'm as fat as a parson, as proud as a sultan. 



DEACON DOROTHY'S ADVICE. 71 

The gem o' the cooncil ; in the kh'k, man, a pillar, 

Not so much for my virtues, but the souch o' the siller, 

True, true, I was bothered wi' my conscience upraidin'. 

But the deeper I dabbled in actions degradin', 

Its qualms, sae tormentin', wore awa' unco soon. 

Like a snaw-ba' exposed to a sun-ray at noon. 

I hae sometimes been nervous, an' trembled a wee 

In mum'lin' the aith 'fore my lord to a lee 

Anent some back debt, whilk I knew, by the way, 

I never had paid nor intended to pay. 

My dupes raised a hub-bub whilk suited my plan, 

** The Deacon, good soul, is a rough han'led man." 

Ye remember I borrow'd a twenty-pound note, 

Whilk I swore to repay, but somehoo I forgot, 

He took oot an action against me — however 

I swindled him oot o't, an' thocht myself clever. 

He ca'd me a thief, but I caredna a stitch — 

An honest man, Willie, will never grow rich. 

Ere a twalmonth had circled awa', I may hint, 

I found mysel' better'd some hunners per cent ; 

I hae flattered the rich, I hae fawn'd afore rank 

An' clapp'd aye the ither ten pound i' the bank. 

On auld maiden ladies, a scunner an' scutter, 

Saft-saip suds I sparedna, nor barrels o' butter. 

In the tee-total pledge bulk I register'd my name — 

Ilka nicht got as fou as a fiddler at hame. 

But naebody saw me, to bluster an' rail. 

An Kate was a woman I kent wadna tell ; 

The kirk folk look'd up to me, too, as a beacon, 

By parson an' elders creatit a deacon. 

Wi' base pharisaic hyprocritical cant 

The weel-to-do Dorothy passed for a saimt. 



72 LA teste's poems. 

I can sing to mysel' noo, an' diddle a jig, tee, 

An' lauch in my sleeve 'neath my vine an' my fig tree ; 

I hae gained independence, a prince among knaves, 

I can live by the sweet o' some dizen slaves, 

Wha maun toil for my pleasure for their paltry bit tin, 

A-tearin' their lives oot to keep their lives in. 

They ca' me a tyrant, but I carena a flee — 

Ilka drap that they sweat draps a diamond to me. 

Tak' my advice, Willie, 'tis the last time I'se gie't, 

The road to preferment ye canna but see't ; 

Gin ye wish to be wealthy adhere to my plan, 

Droon conscience at aince and come forth like a man. 



THE MCGREGOR'S GRAVE. 

A warrior born — a warrior true he died — 
A son of Tomintoul — his regiment's pride. 
Dauntless in fight — in many a battle tried. 

No carpet soldier he, of girlish fear, 
No red-coat puppet puny volunteer ; 
His youth was spent mid carnage and in camps, 
Blood-clotted fields and life-destroying swamps. 
Respected by a Duke— mark'd by a Moore — 
His merits rais'd him to command a corps. 
Fierce in the struggle — watchful in retreat — 
In victory proud — yet tranquil in defeat ; 
Through all his fights he bore a charm'd life, 
Sweeteen'd by the courage of a brave young wife. 



THE MACGREGOR'S GRAVE. 73 

What will a woman's burning love not do ? 
From Gib.'s steep rocks to bloody Waterloo 
She march' d, the idol of the gallant corps, 
And in their ranks eleven children bore. 
Her gallant sons as valorous as their sire, 
Inheriting the bold Macgregor's fire, 
Their mother's buoyant gentle nature, grew 
Young warriors, fearless as their hearts were true. 

'Tis pleasant now to sing such noble men — 
The British soldier was respected then ; 
Acknowledged for his valour by the Throne — 
His daring deeds a name and fame had won. 
For length of service, and the brunts he bore. 
Eleven clasps upon his breast he wore. 
Wearied and worn, his gallant Seventy-fourth 
He left reluctantly for his own-loved North, 
With her, his gentle partner, warrior-wife, 
To spend in peace the evening of his life ; 
Honour'd and esteem'd by all who knew his worth, 
" The good old sergeant" of the Seventy-fourth. 
His life's last battle — ripe in years drew nigh — 
The hour had come, the aged sire must die ; 
At death's approach the good old veteran smiled, 
Closed his clear eye, and died as calm's a child. 
Peace to thy soul, thou remnant of a few — 
Mar's gallant sons — the braves of Waterloo ; » 
The links that bound the present with the past, 
Will shortly now be snapp'd to link the last. 
Green ever be the sod upon thy grave — 
The sod that covers Scotland's best and brave. 



74 LA teste's poems. 



THE CAMPBELL ON HIS FATHER'S GRAVE. 

Grave of my sire ! green ever be thy sod, 
Thy womb contams the " noblest work of God ;" 
Through life untarnish'd he that title bore- — 
" An honest man" — a Campbell to the core ! 
Child of the heath — son of the rugged Isle — 
Fair Scotia's patriot — clansman of Argyle, 
He loved his clan, ador'd the chief he served, 
Nor ever from the path of duty swerved. 
Till Fate at last embark'd him on the wave. 
To find in thee, America, a grave ! 

He loved the land of his adoption well : 
He call'd her Scotia on a grander scale ; 
Her towering mountains and wide-sweeping streams. 
Brought vivid to his mind his youthful dreams. 
The boundless prairie, and the forest wild, 
Made him in age once more the mountain child ; 
He lived beloved — honoured by a patriot band ; 
He died, believing 'twas the Promised Land. 

Wars desolating blast, my Sire, since then 
Hath swept the field, and blanch'd the blooming plain ; 
And hearts that glow'd in love to man and God, 
In millions rot beneath her bloody sod ! 
Red revolution's fratricidal war 

Her " stripes", hath tarnished and blood-stained her 
" star ;" 



THE CAMPBELL ON IIIS FATHER'S GRAVE. 75 

Brother foe to brother — son with sire hath striven, 
In murderous strife, that woke the wrath of heaven ! 
Her stream, like Egypt's stream, have run blood-red, 
Her soil is fattening on her bravest dead ; 
Oceans of tears from woman*s eye have fell 
Might flood the world-fam'd Shenandoah vale ; 
And orphans' wails of woe have rent the skies. 
Till pitying angels wept to hear their cries ! 

God of my fathers ! on my father's grave 

To Thee I bend the knee — my country save ; — 

Stretcli forth Thine arm, and make this murder cease, 

And let Thine angel sound the trump of peace. 

Let union reign — forsake not freedom's cause — 

Let slavery become a thing that was ; 

Extend her power, and let her " eagle" sore 

From Behring's Straits to fair Panama's shore. 

United, feared, hold on her glorious course — 

A nation blest — infinite in resource — 

May she be hail'd where'er her " star's" unfurled, 

Queen of the Ocean — Empress of the World ! 

Give to her Congress wisdom ever fair, 

Let Justice sway the Presidential chair ; 

May rebel bullet ne'er again be cast 

Like that which made good Lincoln breathe his last ; 

Make her, God, the hope, the happy bower 

To those that bend beneath tyrannic power ; 

Home of the Son of Toil from every clime, 

The world's glory to the latest time — 

A people glorious as they have been brave, 

Who've shed their blood to free the long-chain'd slave ! 



76 LA teste's poems. 



IN MEMOEIAM. 

" I cried unto God with my voice ; and He gave ear unto me. 
In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord : my sore ran in the 
night, and ceased not. I remembered God, and my spirit was com- 
forted." — Psalm Ixxvii. 1. 

"Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God." — 
Matthew v. 8. 

In life's mid-summer, verging on the prime 
Of manhood's glory, lusty and robust, 
Serenely pass'd into the dark unknown 
The gentle soul of liim whom all men loved — 
The tender sire — the fond devoted spouse. 

Of blameless life was he — of soul benign — 

Of all men most benevolent in heart ; 

In love abundant, and in faith most rich : • 

In hope most fervent, and in patience strong ; 

In charity of deed unparalleled ; 

In piety profound, in mind most copious ; 

In virtue rich — a Christian to the core. 

Long had he borne — nor sigh nor groan escaped — 

Affliction's rod, that spirit purifier ; 

And we had fondly hoped, as gentle spring 

Woke Nature dead to life, and leaf and bud. 

With bracing breeze and balmy beams benign, 

Might influence the malady he bore. 

And thus restore him to deserving love. 



ABEAM PAIRTIN' WI' HAGAR. 77 

Alas ! for mortal hope. As dawn'd the morn, 
Meet time for souls to soar, child-like he slept ; 
And like a child, pure, innocent — he died ! 
Softly as glides a feather on the stream, 
That soul, now purified from earthly dross, 
Glided into the presence of its God. 

Thou Power Omnipotent, who holds the keys 
Of Life and Death, when that dark hour arrives, 
Oh ! let me die like him, the righteous death. 
And suffer my last end to be like his. 



ABRAM PAIETIN' WF HAGAR 

Och hon ! Daddy Abram ; och, how can ye pairt, man, 
Wi' the bonnie bond lassie, gaun sae sad frae ye'r 
toon ? 

Beer-Sheba's desert is no jist the airt, man, 
To sen' her a-cadgin' for hersel' an' ye'r loon. 

Aye, strap ower her shouther the keggie o' water. 
An' stap in her pouch a bit kebbuck an' crust ; 

There's a tear in her e'e, an' ye're heart's in a splatter. 
For conscience is whisperin' — ye're no actin' just. 

Oh, infidel man ! till thy victim's secured 

How pleasant ye blubber to be faithful an' true ; 

But satiate passion, then ye turn out a coward. 

An' she's thrown to the midden like a worn-out shoe. 



78 LA TESTE S POEMS. 

Thou Dad of the Faithful (an' bloss'd be thy portion), 
Had ye lived in oor day, I could swear by the Bass, 

Oor Prince wad hae nail'd ye at ance for desertion. 
An' lockit ye up wi' my frien' Maister Grass. 

Willa-wins, willa-wins, dinna greet, Hagar, lassie ! 

There are mony a ane in the warl like thee ; 
Thou'rt nae langer a slave to the barren an' saucy — 

Thy son is the elder, an' the bond-maid is free. 

Awa' through the desert — awa' wi' thy laddie, 
« An' seek ye a covert frae the nicht's chilly dew ; 
Hoo blest wad I been to hae wrapt in my plaidie 
Sic a bonny way-worn, wearied outcast as you ! 

Sleeps she ? 0, no ! — those consuming thoughts wakin 
Ever banish sweet sleep frae her tear-flowing eye ; 

The boy, too, is feverin', an' she prays for the breakin' 
Of the morn's ruddy dawn in the far eastern sky. 

The water is spent an' she dreams of returnin', 

But the favour'd one's scorn wad be waur e'en than 
death ; 

A^' the lip an' the brow of her loved one is burnin', 
Quick, quick the pulsation, an' hot is his breath. 

In the shade of a shrub she has laid him soft sleepin'. 

With the dew on his cheek like a bud in the rain ; 
She prays in her madness, with her eye heavenward 
weepin,' 

Till her bosom in agony is riven in twain. 



COI{A LEE. 79 

Ye may read ower I'me Genesis to the last verse o' 
Malach, 
But a gem o' mair beauty I defy ye to fin' ; — 
Ye may tramp frae Beer-Sheba to the Glacks o' the 
Balloch, 
But ye never will meet such a Hagar as mine. 

Come, angel, come ; sooth her bosom's hoarse sighin' ; 

Sweet sounds the purl of the well as it plays ; 
Drink, Hagar, drink, an' restore ye the dyin', 

For God is omnipotent, and to Him be the praise. 



COKA LEE, OK THE DKUNKAKD'S DOOM. 

Sweet Cora Lee, the city's matchless pride — 
Sweet Cora, doom'd to be the drunkard's bride. 
Sad was thy destiny, thou fairy thing — 
Thy tale of woe, alas ! that I must sing ; 
'Twere better hadst thou never tasted life, 
Than bom to die the drunkard's murder'd wife. 
Young Arthur woo'd the peerless Cora Lee, 
Young Arthur won, and who so blest as he ? 
With such a treasure to thy bosom prest. 
Deceitful man, thou might'st indeed be blest. 
Eesponsive throbb'd the heart of Cora Lee, 
She, smiling, lisp'd, " Thou'rt all in all to me ;" 
His form, his virtues, were her daily theme, 
A radiant future was her nightly dream. 
Such are our hopes in love's enchanting sway — 
We never dream of thorns to check the way. 



80 LA teste's poems. 

The woes and throes that in the future loom, 
That blighted hopes lead to an early tomb. 
The lovers wed, sweet Cora Lee became 
The wife of him for whom she fann'd the flame 
Of ever burning, secret, sacred love — 
Love pure as that which cometh from above. 
A happy home was her's — fast flew the year, 
Fraught with connubial bliss — nor care, nor tear 
Disturb'd the bosom, or made dim the eye, 
But all seem'd radiant as a May-morn sky. 



Changed is the scene, alas ! that I must sing 

Of thee, thou potent, and all-powerful king— 

Thou fiend of mankind, mighty Alcohol, 

Eobber of life, destroyer of the soul. 

Black was the night young Arthur Graham became 

A votary to thy bosom-burning flame ; 

He who had shunn'd the brothel from his youth — 

A model of sobriety and truth. 

One step in sin, unchecked, its victim frail 

Leads downward, downward to the gates of hell. 

'Twas thus with Arthur, who had now become 

The noted drunkard, careless of his home ! 

And she, he vow'd to cherish and protect, 

Now treated with a debauchee's neglect. 

The revel was alone his coarse delight — 

Night turn'd to day, and day turn'd into night ; 

The brothel had more charms for him than she. 

Now gliding to the grave — sweet Cora Lee. 

Eemonstrative sweet Cora, ever mild. 

Laid on his lap his lovely, laughing child, 



CORA LEE. 81 

Of dazzling beauty, lightsome as an elf, 

Another Cora — image of herself. 

She thought, perchance, her prattling voice might win 

The bloated father from the dens of sin ; 

But prayers and tears were now of no avail — 

Downward dashed Arthur to the depths of hell. 



She shudder'd nightly as she nightly kneel'd 

To Him alone her sorrows were revealed ; 

She pray'd for aid — unfailing — from above. 

Then wept, heart-broken, o'er her pledge of love. 

She ponder'd o'er the sunny days of yore — 

What were they now ? a transient dream — no more. 

For he who won her heart and charm'd her eye. 

Was now a drunkard of the deepest dye. 

With blood-shot eye, wan cheek, and pimpled brow, 

" Ah ! me/' she sigh'd, " where is his beauty now. 

And where those virtues that my soul adored — 

O God ! in mercy save my wretched lord !" 

The bankrupt Graham still trod the drunkard's path, 

And Cora suffered from his bursts of wrath. 

The home where once they lived a happy twain. 

Was now a garret in a filthy lane ; 

Her polish'd chairs, which filled the parlour snug ; — 

The downy carpet and the tiger'd rug ; — 

The much prized paintings which adorn'd the walls. 

Had fiU'd the shop where hung the three brass balls. 

Sweet Cora Lee stood now on ruin's brink ; 

All, all had perish'd for the love of drink. 

Sweet Cora wept ; her love, her hope, her ftiith, 

Had died within her, and she prayed for death, 



82 LA teste's poems. 

Then wrung her wasted hands, in accents wild 
Cried, " my God ! protect my orphan child !" 
The stubborn brute — the base degraded sot, 
Heard her wild words as if he heard them not. 
His eye her finger caught ; with tiger spring 
Tore from her hand her golden wedding ring. 
The scalding tear roU'd down her cheek so wan- 
O God ! the black depravity of man ! 
Excruciating were the pangs she bore, 
And Cora Lee fell fainting on the floor. 
Her ring was gone — the latest hope wax'd dead- 
And with that ring sweet Cora's reason fled. 



The hour of twelve hath struck — the night is cold- 
The base debauch is o'er, and spent the gold. 
The wretched Arthur staggers down the lane, 
Eemorseless drunk, and with a madden'd brain. 
Sweet Cora Lee prepare to meet thy doom. 
The hand that wed thee sends thee to the tomb I 
Poor maniac Cora, little do'st thou care, 
'Tis but an answer to thy nightly prayer. 
He reel'd within, where Cora shivering stood, 
And in a voice of wrath demanded food. 
Cora was mute, and like a maniac smiled, 
Then pointed towards her sleeping sinless child. 
He raised his arm— the brutal blow was given — 
The blow which sent poor Cora's soul to heaven. 
She fell ; the red blood stream'd across the floor, 
And Cora slept — but Cora woke no more — 
The soul soar'd heavenward with her latest breath, 
And Cora Lee lay beautiful in death. 



THE mither's lament. 83 

The morning dawn'd, and Arthur's blood-shot eyes 
Beheld the clotted stream in mute surprise. 
He rose, he stagger'd, screamed " Blood ! can it be ? 
God ! have I slain my faithful Cora Lee ? 
Speak, Cora !" groan'd the now repentant sot ; 
" Speak, Cora ! speak !" — but Cora answer'd not, 
The pulse was still — the wife lay ghastly dead-^ 
He rush'd a madman from her corpse and fled. 
The night hath waned, and now 'tis morning grey — 
The measured time of one fleets fast away. 
There stands the gibbet — there the dangling rope : 
A shrunken form is stepping on the drop ; 
That shrunken form, oh ! can it be the same ? 
The once athletic, handsome, Arthur Graham. 
The excited ribald crowd proclaim 'tis he — 
The drunkard murderer of sweet Cora Lee, 
Who ere an hour shall fill a felon's tomb. 
Let all who read beware the drunkard's doom ! 



THE MITHEE'S LAMENT. 

! sadly soun's the clickin' o' the clock agin the wa' ; 
Hark ! the auld toon bell is strikin' — 'tis the weary 

hour o' twa ; 
For the clods are dowfin' doo'some on her little coffin lid, 
An' rack'd wi' pain my bosom, whaur her face sae aften 

hid; 

f2 



84 LA teste's poems. 

She has left me sad and lonely noo — nor love nor skill 
could save ; 

My sweet, my pet — my only, too — sleeps in her new- 
made grave. 

Ye'd hae loved her had ye seen her in her wildest 

infant glee, 
A bonnier nor a keener never danced on mither's knee ; 
Aye kissin', ruggin', rockin', an' twinin' ronn' my 

neck — 
Jumpin', langhin', croakin' — ! my heart ! my heart 

will break ! 
Why didst thon, Death, my bairnie, sae nnpityin', 

ruthless crave ? 
Short was thy life's wee journey frae thy cradle to thy 

grave ! 

Her locks sae saft and silky, too, had just begun to 

twine 
Around her neck o' milky hue — fair Seraph — white as 

thine ; 
A cheek o' pinky lightness, wi' an alabaster broo ; 
An' e'e that vied in brightness wi' the heaven's ethereal 

blue, 
An' smirkin' like yon starnie in the lift aboon the lave. 
O ! ye never saw a bairnie like my beauty o' the grave ! 

Her father bids me keep not hourly weepin', for 'tis 

vain; 
But when he bids me weep not, I can see him dicht 

his ain ; 



THE MITHER S LAMENT. 85 

An' the heavin's o' his bosom tell o' pangs that inward 

dwell. 
For he loved his blue-e'ed blossom neist the love he 

bears mysel'. 

! sad's the tear o' sorrow frae the manly an' the brave ; 
'Tis thy father, little Flora, draps an offering on thy 

grave. 

1 thocht my heart wad sunder when I saw her in her 

shroud, 
As they strew'd some rosebuds round her, an' we 

sabbit sair an' loud ; 
An' my breast was like to wither as I kissed her pallid 

brow, 

! I'll never love anither wi' sic holy ardent lowe, 
Cease, cease, my e'en, thy weepin', for He's ta'en but 

what He gave ; 
An' soon we'll a' be sleepin' like my wee thing in the 
grave. 

1 will miss thy footstep roamin' but an' ben wi' hum- 

min' croon ; 
I will miss thee in the gloamin', whan I smooth'd thy 

cradle doon ; 
I will miss thy waukin' up, too, wi' thy winnin' smile 

sae bricht ; 
I will doubly miss thy lip, too, in the mirky hour o' 

nicht ; 
I will miss thee on the morrow, thrummin' ower thy 

matin stave ; 
I will miss thee ever. Flora, till we meet beyond the 

grave. 



86 LA teste's poems. 



JUNE SUNEISE AT CULLEN. 

The sea-breeze played glaff in my face as I daundered 

Eoond Willie's Win'mill on the broo o' the brae ; 
Afar on the sea, as the boaties steered landward, 

Their sheets shone like gowd in the sun's early ray. 
As placid's a lake lay the ocean aroon' me, 

An' saft in my lug was the fa' o' its hum ; 
Not a Banff Bailie darkened the azure aboon me, 

Save the reek as it curled frae the fisherman's lum. 

Awa' in the distance the lark, in commotion, 

Exultin'ly caroled its matin sae shrill ; 
While the gull in his glee swept the bosom of ocean — 

The brine on his broad wing, a fish in his bill. 
The scene was enchantin', the stillness unbroken. 

Save when the fishwives o' Portknockie bid hail 
To honest George Hossack, in his gig-royal rockin*, 

The trustworthy guard o' the Fochabers mail. 

Frae his bed in the sea rose old Sol in his glory. 

Till the wee waves danced light in the sheen o' his 
rays. 
Illumined wi' gowd ilka rock, crag, and corry. 

An' e'en the bleak Binn, smilin', basked in his blaze. 
Oh ! fair art thou, Cullen, in the ray o' Aurora, 

An' fair be thy daughters, as famed they hae been, 
May their young hearts' best love ne'er be blighted by 
sorrow. 

Nor the tears o' despair blear the blinks o' their e'eri. 



OOR WIFE JEAN. 



87 



OOK WIFE JEAN. 

La Teste may rant 'bout Flora May, 

An' blaw aboot Bonnelle, 
An' dee in love wi' Jeanie Gray 

Or sonsie brewster Bell. 
We hae as strappin' queans as they— 

An' as gude wives, 1 ween — 
Whaur will ye get a wife, the day, 

Like oor wife Jean — 
The flower that gems the banks o' Spey 
Is oor wife Jean. 

Auld Fochabers is no behin' 

In laureates ane or twa ; 
Wha, ere a towmond pass, may shine 

As bright as Elgin's La. 
I'm no great bard, but never min'— 

An' what o' that my frien' ? 
Ill strive my best to scrieve a line 

For oor wife Jean — 
An' pawkily I'll coort the Nine 
For oor wife Jean. 

Oh ! lang, lang may she live to see 

Her bairns' bairnies sproot 
Like twigs aroond the Duchess' Tree- 
That circlin' sappy root. 
A cosier, kinder wife than she 

Ne'er trod the Castle green— 
An' dear to mony mair than me 
Is oor wife Jean. 
Were t mine, the Duke's estate I'd gie 
To oor wife Jean. 



88 LA teste's poems. 

Her coothy, kind bewitchin' way 

Oor best affections win, 
An' aye a smile like Plioebns' ray, 

Lurks in her dimpled chin ; 
At shady eve or mornin' grey 

That smile is ever seen — 
Oh ! lightly fleet the hours away 

Wi' oor wife Jean — 
The darkest day's a sunny day 
Wi' oor wife Jean. 

We've wish'd her mony a gude New- Year, 

We wish the same again ; 
Bright blaze the auld Yule log to cheer 

Her cosy but an ben. 
May sorrow never wring a tear 

To dim her hazel e'en, 
Nor hidden grief the bosom sear 

0' oor wife Jean ; 

l^or aucht despoil th.e warl's gear 

0' oor wife Jean. 

May Eobin on her biggin hum 

His merriest sang at morn, 
Sure that her han' will throw a crumb, 

Or e'en a barley-corn ; 
Lang may the honey- suckers hum 

In her kail-yard sae green. 
An lang the reek curl frae tlie lum 

0' oor wife Jean— 
An' mony a merry New- Year come 
To oor wife Jean. 



THE GLEN TWENTY YEARS AGO. 89 

THE GLEN TWENTY YEAES AGO. 

PART I. 

Glen of my youth, thou bonny sunny Glen ! 
Thou little realm, which had thy mighty men, 
Where first my fingers tuned the rural lyre, 
Where first my soul caught poesy's potent fire ; 
Where first my bosom for a bosom bled, 
And learned to love the laughing cottage maid ! 
Thou bonny Glen, thou rich and corn-clad vale, 
In beauty unsurpassed — I bid thee hail ! 
And, for an hour reposing by thy burn, 
I'll dream of scenes that nevei? may return — 
When life was innocence, and love, and truth, 
When all was beautiful in beauteous youth ; 
Ere passion burned, ere folly had enslaved, 
Ere sorrow wrung, ere sin the soul depraved I 

Some twenty years have passed away since then, 
And with them passed thy patriarchal men, 
Whose bones now moulder in their mother soil. 
Around yon ivied venerable pile. 
A stalwart race of doughty deed were they. 
Inured to toil from morn till twilight grey ; 
At flail or field, peat-moss, or brambly brake — 
Theirs were the limbs that knew no gouty ache, 
Nor summer heat nor winter frost could tell 
On those iron-frames that husbanded the vale. 
First, " In Memoriam," let me sagely sing 
Their happy, hardy, hoary-headed Ki7ig — 
A monarch mild, of ninety summers nigh. 
Of pleasant face and placid, twinkling eye. 



90 LA teste's poems. 

Who boasted oft he springs had seeu a score 

Ere he a brogue or broad Scotch bonnet wore, 

'Not hose nor breeks confined his brawny leg, 

Blest in his fyauk and hamespun philabeg. 

Tales of his youth he loved to tell at e'en, 

To greedy ears, upon the summer green, 

Eomantic stories of his palmy days, 

When he at Coltfield drove the premier greys. 

A happier king shall ne'er a sceptre sway 

Than he, the unambitious — passed away ! 

Even where the willow o'er the water weeps. 

There with his sires the lint-locked monarch sleeps ! 



Next in rotation comes the reverend sire, 
The Bisliop, in his primitive attire. 
A red Kilmarnock striped with black he wore. 
Long vest, with pearl buttons nigh a score, 
Knee-breeks, buckled at the knee, of homespun blue, 
And strong, ribbed stockings of a purple hue ; 
He seldom donned his coat of woollen grey. 
Except on Sunday or a market day. 
His palace, a clay biggin' thatched with sods. 
That cosy kept him and his household gods. 
Impervious both to blustering wind and rain — 
A clay-floored hut, a wooden sanded len ; — 
Long was his grace, and doubly long his prayer ; 
Long was the psalm, and long the sacred air ; 
Long was his lease of life, ere death drew nigh. 
And closed in peace the humble patriarch's eye. 
Where rooks a covert find, where owlets screech, 
No more the man of God shall Godhead preach ; — • 



THE GLEN TWENTY YEARS AGO.' 91 

Their moral light was he, the valley's star — 

The learned, the pious, and polite Dunbar : 

Even he whose presence cheered their household fires 

Has long ago been gathered to his sires. 

Gone also to his narrow bed of rest, 
The stalwart Oeneral, with portly chest, 
The place that knew him well in days of yore 
Will know the Hercules of the Glen no more. 

Green were his haughs, and broad his rigs and fair, 

And where a Cruickshank ruled now rules a Kerr. 

Bold was his sire. Doth not tradition cite, 

When Fife and Seafield met in bloodless fight, 

He, in his haste to join Duff's much-loved lord, 

A taiie clia'p'per brandished for a sword ; 

With such a weapon flourished in the strife — 

Ah ! many a laugh laughed James, the good Lord Fife. 

He, too, hath gone the way of all the earth. 

The generous Colonel of noble birth ; 

And Westertown, with its green woods and lands, 

Have found their way into another's hands. 

Thou sunny home ! thou ever fair domain 

Between two hills ; thou beauty of the glen ! 

With wood, and lake, and lawn, and isles adorned. 

Where I in boyhood happily sojourned ! 

There earliest Spring her emerald mantle spreads ; 

There Summer revels in her flowery beds ; 

There Autumn lingers for the advent of Spring ; 

There plumaged minstrels longest love to sing ; 

There I, unknown, unloved, through life could plod. 

And calmly die, adoring Nature's God. 



92 . LA teste's poems. 

Hail ! blest and solemn peaceful solitude, 

Where gleans tlie soul her most nutritious food ; 

One hour with thee in vig'rous, joyous health. 

Is worth a million of the world's wealth. 

With all its pomp, and pride, and gaudy toys. 

Its golden nothings and its transient joys. 

Give me the lonely glade when sunlight wanes, 

When solitude abroad sublimely reigns, 

When Luna's horns, reflected, trembling, shake 

Upon the rippling bosom of the lake ; 

When heaven's bright orbs blaze in the broad expanse, 

And in the lake's depths, dazzling, mirrored dance ; 

When nerves olfactory pleasantly inhale 

The mellifluent odours of the vale. 

Borne on the pinions of the evening breeze 

That solemn sough amid the burgeoned trees, 

Then should my soul, enraptured, revel — race 

Amid the glories of infinite space ; 

Untrammelled, soar to heaven's remotest sphere, 

Nor earth nor hell could bar her bright career ; 

E'en to the Eternal Throne triumphant wing, 

And with archangels hallelujahs sing. 

PAKT 11. 

In many a noble structure have I dwelt, 
Nor aught of awe, nor love, nor pleasure felt ; 
No fond endearments to my memory cling 
Like those which haunt the vale I love to sing. 
E'en Bijou, with its myrtles and its flowers. 
Its luscious vines, and brilliant moonlit hours ; 
The vintage dance amid the motley shades, 
The balmy breeze that fanned the exulting maids, 



THE GLEN TWENTY YEARS AGO. 93 

The glossy locks, the love-lit flashing eyes, 

The perfumed air, the cloudless Gascon skies, 

The rich red Madoc from the lath-built bin. 

Cooling and quenching as a mountain linn, 

The cornet's numbers in the distant dell, 

Blent with the piping of the nightingale 

In night's lone noon — now to my fancy seen 

A fairy scene or transitory dream. 

Though beautiful, poetically grand. 

Oh ! give me still my own romantic land, 

The bonny Glen through which the burnie glides, 

Its haughs and saughs, and rugged mountain sides ! 



Impressions stamped in youth through life will last 

(Those dear associations of the past), 

Like furrows on the brow of aged distress — 

Time may make deeper, but can ne'er efface. 

How vivid now each rosy scene appears, 

As memory wafts me back some twenty years ! 

The lake, studded with its isles of shrub and thorn, 

Eound which I've paddled in a tub at morn ; 

The minnow burn, the bog, the fairy den 

Where good old Cummin' — glory of the Glen — 

Performed a feat unparalleled by man — 

His rifle fired, and shot the Evil One ! 

The mirth at Eastern's E'en and Hallow Eve, 

The nuts, the stocks, the bowls, the drookit sleeve. 

The blithe Yule dancing to the pibroch's strain 

Of Priory Mac, the piper of the Glen, 

Whose pibroch in its case hath long been laid — 

Theworthy gardener hums a harp instead. 



94 LA teste's poems. 

still now the hand neath where the ivy twines 

That planted Heldon's now gigantic pines, 

The exciting hunt at morning's earliest glow, 

When Freefield's Knight brought down the bounding roe, 

Thro' brush, thro' brake, thro' burn, thro' gap and gorge, 

The foremost there, Reddavies honoured George ; 

The wild hallo ! the plenteous usquebae 

Fired every breast, and every soul felt gay. 

Time changes all things — time hath changed the Glen — 

We kept no burly, bearded keepers then. 

But every man alike, unwatched, might shoot, 

Nor did the larder lack for bird or brute. 

Oh ! woe's me for the days of freedom gone, 

When sire and son might call the Glen their own ! 

Should rat-trap now within a barn be found. 

They must be poinded or produce their pound ; 

Jailed and ejected should they trap or snare 

A puny rabbit or a paltry hare. 

Which fattened on the seed they sowed, until 

It please His Highness to usurp and kill ! 

No wonder, then, though Scotia's bravest bands 

Go seek asylums in more genial lands ; 

Manhood the mountain leaves, and youth the glen — 

Such is the wisdom of our ruling men 1 



Of all that hardy, toiling, bygone race, 

One notable retains his ancient place, 

For Cameron still survives the wreck of years. 

The good old knight of thimble, goose, and shears. 

Long may he toll the bell on Sunday morn ; 

Well plenished always be his old ram's horn ; 



THE pauper's death AND FUNERAL. 95 

Long may his arms have strength enough to bear 

The big kirk Bible up the pulpit stair ! 

Peace to the ashes of those honour'd ones 

Now passed away ; and may their brawny sons, 

Who have succeeded to their household fires, 

Be fathers worthy of their vanish'd sires ! 

Blest in their sons, staunch warriors bold and true, 

A Fife to-morrow proudly may review ; 

And may their daughters be their pride and joy, 

Chaste as Diana, fair as Nell of Troy ! 

Green be the valley in its plains and slopes. 

Fruitful a hundredfold in all its crops ! 

Where'er on earth kind Heaven my lot may cast. 

Glen of my youth, I'll love thee to the last ! 



THE PAUPEE'S DEATH AND FUNERAL. 

Three-score and ten — the allotted span — had past, 
Friendless, alone, the pauper breathed her last. 
No voice of love, no weeping friend stood there. 
No rich fat parson soothed her soul with prayer. 
He would not for a moment deign to dwell 
In such a hovel for 'twas called a hell ; 
Den of corruption and abandon'd youth, 
To virtue lost, fair-fame and honest truth. 
'Twould spoil his dinner such a st^nchy den. 
And take the flavour from his rich champagne ; 
He never dream*d, through all his priesthood years 
A pauper's soul's as precious as a peer's. 



96 LA teste's poems. 

Had it been some prostrate aristocrat 

With long rent-roll, purse proud, corrupt in fat ; 

His reverence would attended day by day 

To read a chapter, take a glass, and pray. 

The pauper, wretched, racked, must to the grave, 

As if she had not got a soul to save ; 

Scarce four-and-twenty hours have passed away 

Since death o'ertook that putrifying clay. 

A night is long enough to lie in state. 

Why should the pauper ape the pamper'd great ; 

Go, nail together some few deals of fir, 

Eough as they are, 'tis good enough for her. 

With blackening daub them — paint who would afford, 

The pauper must be buried by the Board. 

Now hurry her to the hearse the urchins roar, 

" She never rode behind a pair before." 

The impatient nags would rather trot than lag, 

Convinced 'tis but a pauper's corpse they drag ; 

Pull gently, friends, what though the grave be near, 

The band-box shell may burst upon the bier. 

Tis not the cof&n of a Countess — nay, 

'Tis but the shell that holds a pauper's clay ; 

What though entombed in rags, that soul survives, 

Eemember Lazarus and pampered Dives. 

Vain fool, hast thou not read the word inspired, 

" Where much is given, much shall be required ?" 



THE BARE-FOOTED LADDIE. 97 



THE BAEE-FOOTED LADDIE. 

He wore nae bonnet on his pow, 

His curly locks sae fair 
Furl'd round a white majestic brow : 

I said there's genius there. 
He raced 'mang ither pamper'd buds, 

Weel clad outside an' in ; 
His sarhie through his torn duds 

Was llutterin' in the win\ 

Bare-footed on the ice he slade, 

White wi' the driven snaw ; 
His bowfy cheeks, sae rosy red, 

The merriest o' them a'. 
He led the van his dainty seF, 

An' like an arrow flew ; 
An' ilka time he laughin' fell, 

He gave a loud halloo. 

I look'd upon the boy an' smiled — 

That boy of noble brow ; 
I said, though now a raggit child. 

That boy a man will grow ; — 
That soul will master every blast 

Of frosty fate to fame ; 
Ere twenty years hae come an' past 

The world will ring his name. 



98 LA teste's poems. 



CAKES AND ALE. 

Gie Monsieur claret, rich an' rare, 
Vin-rouge, vin-hlanche, vin-ordinaire, 
Wi' garlic soak'd in Lncco oil. 
The smell o' which ye'd sniff a mile. 
Gie Mynheer Hollands till he choke, 
An' Herr his famed Moselle an' Hock ; 
Gie Don his double-dagger sherry, 
An' grandmamma her elder-berry ; 
The Turk cauld water, gin he's for't, 
The Lisbonite his luscious port. 
Gie Poland's blood to quench the Euss, 
A dyester's washin's for the Pruss ; 
John Cheenaman o' tea his fill, 
The Austrian dog, strichnine, a gill. 
Signora, dear, fresh laurels twine 
And bring thy chief thy choicest wine ; 
Dirl, joyous dirl, yer harpsichord, 
Donn'd is the red sark, bare the sword. 
Gie Britain's Queen, lang may she reign, 
Madeira's best, an' iced champagne ; 
The Bishop, if he's nae teetotal. 
Burgundy in a magnum bottle. 
Gie Jonathan, the bold and free, 
His whisky, rum, an' eau-de-vie ; 
Gie Patrick butter-milk the sourest ; 
Pope Pius, curacoa the purest. 
Miss Delicate her duck's egg-flip ; 
Lord John his schwipps an' mornin' nip. 



CAKES AND ALK 99 

Despotic Bismarck, king o' tykes, 

Some brimstane aqua up frae Styx, 

Gie Presbyterian Parsons — eh ? 

Not alcohol, but sour milk whey ; 

They hate a' spirit, save his grim maitre, 

By him they live, an' move, et cetera. 

Their stipen's canna weel affoor't, 

An' conscience girns — " Eemember Stewart." 

Gie doctors salts, an' lawyers suds, 

The bards the nectar o' the gods ; 

Gie " Beta" holy water oft, 

His strains are so divinely soft. 

Gie Cutler Jamie what ye will, 

But ^ion't forget his forenoon gill ; 

Though Bell has barr'd the bar door noo, 

Thou'lt have, old boy, thy daily dew 

Where Clutha with poetic brow — 

The Courier's dull without ye now. 

Wake ! — have a drop of Donald's B, 

It will enliven thy minstrelsy ; 

Arise an' be our guiding star — 

Or dread a lecture from I. K. 

Strike, Clutha, strike thy lyre ance mair, 

Whaur Finlay's fount plays ever fair. 

Dear Gou. " Dominie," muse in the shade — 

Spare not John Hampton's lemonade ; 

Apollo's sel' has tuned thy lyre — 

By Jove ! thou'lt set the hills on fire. 

And where our painter poet A. I. ? 

He has been mute for months gone by ; 

Perhaps he's ta'en an oyster shop. 

Drinking wi' Tenu. Westminster pop. 

g2 



100 LA teste's poems. 

Weep, Albion, weep, deep is thy wrong ; 
Gone to the dogs your sons of song. 
" And must thy lyre so long divine. 
Degenerate into hands like mine ?" 
One nobler yet will chant thy lay — 
Apothecary Bob ! hurrah ! 
And he shall have the best black beer 
And treacle swats that's vendit here. 
Gie Hereford an' Devon's sons 
Eich cider, sparkling, pure in tons. 
Gie Cockney John his cold or 'ot, 
Thames wishy-wash, threepence per pot ; 
Alsopp's an' Bass's India pale. 
But gie La Teste his cakes and ale. 
Ye wha prefer maut to champagne. 
Try Farquhar's stores in Batchen Lane ; 
Ye dinna ken until ye try 
Their noted X. L. N. C. Y.— 
His ale an' beer are o' the best, 
An' wha kens better than La Teste. 



WANTED, A WIFE. 

My eye ! what blest sensations soft steal o'er me. 
And myriads of ideas dance before me ; 
Light thoughts of love, and balmy years to come- 
Blest with life's only blessing, and a home. 
Exult, my soul, and let my fancy trace 
The form angelic, and the chisseU'd face — 
The rolling eye as dark as night — the cheek 
Outvying in tint Aurora's earliest streak — 



WANTED, A WIFE. 101 

The rich, red, ruby lip — the rounded chin — 

The broad white brow which speaks of mind within ; 

With wavy ringlets, Eve-like drooping o'er 

A neck as pure's the snow on steep Ben Mohr, 

With Grecian nostril like a white blown rose. 

I know 'tis rude to touch a lady's nose, 

But then, you see, my passions are so strong ; 

I'll have her where Mahommed was ere long ; 

You must excuse us, ladies, at a time — 

We, bards, will soar even to the seventh clime. 

But, to return, the fact is simply this, 

If single blessedness, indeed, be bliss — 

I never feel it, for I'm truly sick 

Of singularity from week to week ; 

With ennui dead — disgusted with the past, 

I have resolved to advertise at last 

For that which is most beautiful in life — 

Man's earthly crown of liappiness — a wife — 

For did not Solomon the Wise note down, 

A virtuous wife is to her lord a crown — 

I'm not particular to age or shade, 

I'll take a widow just as soon's a maid, 

Provided she's not grey or toothless old ; 

And even then, if she possesses gold : 

That makes her younger — quite a different thing — 

I'm fond of sovs. they've such a glorious ring, 

I've no objections to a pair of greys. 

Or handsome piebalds, glossy blacks, or bays, 

With young postilion riding like the wind, 

And a starch'd flunkey on the board behind. 

With golden stick, red plush, and powdered locks, 

Pearl-buckled shoes, and Paris silken socks — 



102 LA teste's poems. 

A handsome fellow truly — though a knave ; 
But then, poor John is but a semi-slave, 
Whose thumb and fingers never leave his tile 
Until they rob it of its glossy pile — 
I'll make a first-rate master — so I will — 
In all things passive — for I'm wondrous still ; 
And with affaires domestique — lady dear, 
I beg to state I'll never interfere. 



One wish alone have I — a wish thou'lt grant. 
The cellar key, my dear, is all I want ; 
I've many pleasing virtues — vices none— 
Save one — and that is wasting life alone ; 
There's not a man from Cornwall to Skye 
Could make a woman happier than I. 
Convinced of this — then I would study ever 
To give thee pleasure, and offend thee never ; 
With such a treasure-trove of love and light, 
I'd never think of going out at night ; 
We'll have a game of something after dinner, 
I'll lose, of course, and thou shalt be the winner- 
Or in the garden take an evening turn. 
Till James announces coffee and the urn ; 
I'll make the tea myself — the walk, of course, 
Has given you a headache — worse and worse. 
Please do not ring for Fanny Slim, the maid. 
Nay, rather, darling let her go to bed ; 
I hate that girl, the pamper'd petted elf, 
I'll do your femme de ckamhre work myself 
And thou shalt laugh right merrily and say 
Dear Will — you've kiss'd my headache all away. 



WANTED, A WIFE. 103 

The picture's pretty, aint it, in the ideal, 

I wish, indeed — don't you — it were but real. 

Wouldn't we be truly happy then through life. 

The faithful husband, and the loving wife. 

I dined last Sunday with the Duke of U., 

A fine old fellow, and a funny too. 

Her Grace the Duchess said with streaming eyes, 

" You stupid boy, why don't you advertise. 

Or start for Prussia, tender there your vow ; 

The Prussian gentry's all the fashion now. 

Another Princess, it is said, must mate 

With princely nought — a man the girl must hate ; 

One twice her years, the poor young thing must nurse, 

Another burden on the British purse ; 

Far better for her advertise, like you. 

Than wed a poor debilitated roue!' 

Well, I have answered to Her Grace's call, 

Let other people please themselves — that's all. 

I'll say no more, to say too much is rude, 

So with a line of Scripture I'll conclude. 

Like Sheba's Queen, and Judah's royal sire, 

Thou'lt have, my darling, all thy heart's desire ; 

Make up your mind, and set the affair at rest, 

And be at once— my Lady Leith La Teste. 



104 LA teste's poems. 



GOOD NEWS. 

Ye bletherin nowte, wha write an' rowte, 

I'll gar ye haud yer jaw yet, 
Ye little men, wha dinna ken 

Not e'en the moral law yet — 
The beam that's in yer brither's e'e, 
Till ance yer ain be oot, lat be ; 
Ye ken yersel, as weel as me, 

The born-blin' ne'er saw yet. 

" Though whyles we gang a thochtie wrang,' 

There's ane aboon us a' yet 
Wha kens the heart — the nobler pairt — 

His love will croon us a' yet ; 
Gae learn to love thy brither, man, 
An' do him a' the good ye can — 
Remember 'twas his last comman', 

Some day He'll soun' us a' yet. 

Why will ye storm, dirt-eatin' worm, 

An other creeds misca' yet ? 
Though ye shall rail, e'en till yer pale. 

We'll worship God, for a' yet : 
Be this oor creed, through life's rough road. 
Love we our neighbour an' our God — 
Then though our sins be red as blood. 

He'll purge them pure as snaw yet. 



GOOD NEWS. 106 

Why will ye, then, conceited men, 

Cud o' intolerance chaw yet ? 
0, Heaven ! I pray thy blessed ray 

Their frozen hearts may thaw yet. 
An' with diviner feelings buoy't. 
Till love an' union reign o'erjoy't, 
In priest an' parson, peer an' poet — 

An' heaven receive us a' yet. 

Come, then, sit doon, we'll ha'e a tune, 

Lang may the bugle blaw yet, 
An' mony a lay I hope we'll hae. 

Afore we gang awa yet. 
Yestreen I felt dead-dour and douce. 
The nicht I'm crawin' oh ! sae crouse, 
I feel I could flee ower a house — 

There's hope for Cockie La yet. 

She's comin' here, wi' gowd an' gear, 

Some ane ye never saw yet. 
She's comin' doon, frae Lunnon toon, 

" To tak' me frae ye a' yet." 
I gat a letter frae hersel,' 
Blue-edged — an' bonny did she spell, 
But oh ! her name I daurna tell — 

She'll be the weans' mamma yet. 

The ocean-wave, though rude its rave, 

She never fear'd ava yet ; 
An' noo she swears, my sairs an' cares 

SheTl bang agin the wa' yet. 



106 LA teste's poems. 

I sit an' greet, wi' doonricht glee, 
Nae wonder, when she says — says she — 
*' A smiddy boreman though ye be, 
Ye'r pony pair ye'll ca' yet !" 

I»m sick o' brose an' brochan dose, 

A richer canp I'll claw yet. 
Though lean the-now, ye'll see me row 

As fat's a butter ba' yet ; 
Gin yon great chieftain brak or dee, 

She'll buy the bonny spot for me — 
An' then ye'll a' stap up an' see 

Sir William o' the Ha' yet, — 

Keepin' open house, for mony a goose 

I trust we'll live to thraw yet ; 
The best o' cheer, wi' wine an' beer, 

Hooch ! mony a cork we'll draw yet ! 
Ye'll get yer banks, an' braes an' brigs, 
Barges an' boats, an pleasure gigs — 
I'll row ye roun' the Captain's rigs, 
Ye'll a' be proud o' La yet. 

D'ye think I'm leein' ? ye gowket bein', 

Good sooth the day will daw yet, 
I'll hae a queen wi' comely mein, 

An' I'll be king for a' yet. 
Blythe wiU she be on summer e'ens 
To see yer bonny todlin' weans 
Playing Tod-Lowrie on the greens, 
An' rompin' in a raw yet. 



LIST O' GOODS IN OOR SHOP. 107 

! merry may, at gloamin' grey, 

Their lauch ring through the shaw yet, 

Tills birds encore, their gleesome roar, 
To mony a dear huzza yet ; 

An' hasten, Heaven, that happy hour. 

To prove the bard's prophetic power — 

" That man to man, the warl' ower. 
Shall brithers be for a' yet." 



LIST 0' GOODS IN OOR SHOP. 
Hoosewives an' matrons — ilka body 
Economy wha daily study, 
There's nae anither hoose in toon 
Can sell sae cheap as we — cash doon ; 
Sae ladies, we invite a ca', 
Try oor Provision store, that's a' ; 
In sooth we're able, gin ye'r willin'. 
To save ye twopence o' the shillin'. , 
For sugar we hae borne the palm, 
Our syrup, sirs, micht pass for jam ; 
Oor teas, a' swear, are trebly fine, 
Frae ane-an'-sax to three-an'-nine ; 
An' coffee, roastit on the grun', 
Frae ane to ane-an'-eight per pun'. 
Ooor soaps are o' a pleasant smell, 
Imperial, mottled, extra pale, 
Crown (Scotch), white (London), yellow, light, 
Micht wash the blackest nigger white. 
There's nane in Elgin can compete 
Wi' oor famed dips and composite ; 
Carrawa' — coriander seed. 
First-rate when baked in aiten bread. 



108 LA teste's poems. 

For spices, too, the prize we wan — 

Nutmegs, pimento, and Cayenne, 

Bottled vinegar from Chili, 

Tapioca, vermacille. 

Our mustard is sae strong, ye see, 

'Twad bring the water frae ye'r e'e ; 

We've broken rice, an' Patna fine, 

Oor best at threepence — Caroline ; 

We've arrowroot, at ony money, 

West India sago, maccaroni. 

Split pease to gar ye'r grinders dirl, 

Pot barley, common, ditto pearl ; 

Soda-wash, bi-carbonet. 

An' cakes o' black that brush like jet. 

Hall's patent starch, an' Glenfield's fine. 

Black lead to gar ye'r fenders shine. 

St Michael oranges, the best, 

WhoSjp juice will gar ye'r grub digest ; 

Valentia raisins, nuts as well. 

Sultana, ditto Muscatelle ; 

Currants, almonds, apples, onions. 

An' sappy figs to saften bunions. 

Tobacco next comes on the list — 

Cut cavendish an' common twist ; 

Clay pipes, that might for meerschaum pass. 

Pipe-tops, in silver, tin, and brass. 

We vend the best rapee in toon, 

Fine Princes' mixture, Taddy's broon. 

Pickled cauliflower, French beans. 

Beetroot — sliced neeps, leeks, an' greens ; 

Currant jellies, black an' red, 

An' Dundee Keillor's marmalade ; 



LIST O' GOODS IN OOR SHOP. 109 

Mixed lozenges o' every kind, 
An' barley sugar, thrice refined ; 
Black ditto, currant cakes an' buns, 
An' biscuits made by Dunn an' Sons. 
We've bags o' seeds piled pile on pile. 
An' can Cologne perfumed hair oil ; 
Ham beef frae Glasgow— sautit roe ; 
Canadian prairie buffalo ; 
An' mutton that frae Denmark came. 
An' butter, summer-cured at hame : 
Dried ling, an' cod, too, if you please— 
Kanter, Dunlop, Holstein cheese. 
Aitmeal, ground weekly— goodness knows, 
Pease-flour for makin' Glasgow brose. 
Bran, pollard dust, an' linseed meal ; 
An pron to steep for sowens at Yiel. 
Potatoes always whan ane calls 
Por regents, cups, or Staffordhalls ; 

Bath brick, pipe-clay, Sussex hops ; 

Haddock-hooks, an' tarry ropes ; 

An' as for speldins, saith, an' herrin'— 

For tippence ye may get yer sairin*. 

Epsom salts an' castor oil. 

Cream o' tartar— cammomile, 

Sautpeter, liquid blue, an' honey ; 

Black beer, bane kames at ony money ! 

Matches, pins, fuzees, an' flails ; 

Brushes, twine, an' water pails ; 

An mair than that, an' which is best. 

We've that which cures the Kinderpest. 

Call, ladies, if ye please, an' see, 

Elgin— South Street, Thirty-three. 



110 LA teste's poems. 



MY LAST NIGHT'S DEEAM. 

I had just bade gude nicht to friend Sawny the tanner, 

An' flapp'd on my sofa gey spiritwil blest, 
Whaiir I dream'd that a barque with the star- spangled 

banner 
Had come for my body to bear to the West. 

" Fareweel, Lossie banks, to the Ploo' an' the Harrow," 
I sang in my glee, as I clapp'd on my kilt ; 

" I'm awa to Lake Erie to wed sonsie Saurah, 

Wha for years an unquenchable flame I hae felt." 

I a giiff I was ready, an' awa to the Station — 
Mac. sent me to Lossie first-class by the rail, 

Whaur I boarded the barque in my wild^desperation, 
Weigh'd anchor at ance, an' for Saurah set sail. 

Och ! snell blew the blast, but a nichtcap o' flannel 
Keep't my pate pretty snug in my berth as I lay 

A day an' a night ; an' the isles o' the channel 
We had left far a-hin', like twa dots i' the bay. 

Up the Delaware water we gallantly glided. 
An' past muckle toons that defy me to name. 

Till we cam' tae Lake Erie, whaur sweet Saurah resided, 
Wadin' in to the knee-caps to welcome me hame. 

She seem'd unco changed, for 'twas years since I saw her. 
The beauty was gane o' the dear auld langsyne. 

She wore a black mutch — I had seen her wi' brawer — 
An' a goon that had ne'er been aboon crinoline. ^ . 



MY LAST night's DREAM. . Ill 

Thinks I to mysel', sure, this canna be Saurah, 
The Albion beauty that I lo'ed to adore ; 

In the weeds o' a widow, too — hooch ! deil a marrow — 
Wi' a hauf-score o' brats playing buff on the shore ! 

" D'ye no ken me, Willie ? — true I'm changed, an' a' 
widow, 

An' marriage an' time blauds the best o' oor sex ; 
But I'm rich, Will, in arable land an' a meadow, 

An' ye're welcome to a' sin' ye've come to the Lakes." 

An' she leuch in my face, an' she smirkit sae kin'ly. 
As she drew from her goon-pooch a muggin weel 
stow'd, 

Whilk she wagg'd in my lug ; an' it clinket divinely. 
Losh ! hoo my heart loup'd at the clink o' the gowd ! 

Quo' I, dearest Saurah, I'm prood o' the favour — 
An' here I was earnest enough, ye may guess ; 

An' aifter some winnin', an' ither palaver, 
I managed to stamp on her lips a bit kiss. 

An' I blabber'd. Dear Sal, I'm yer ain, yer anointed. 
An' I sabb'd on her bosom an 'oor, gin ye please ; 

Whan, swatin', I wauken'd, sair, sair disappointed, 
Huggin' naething but rags an' some millions o' fleas ! 



112 LA teste's poems. 

FAEEWEEL TO THE GAERET. 

Fareweel to the Garret, an' its roarin' carousers, 
Wi' its reek-smorin' lum an' its ricketty floor, 

An' its window panes stuff'd wi' my smudg'd smiddy 
trousers — 
The anld flaichy garret, wi' the broken-hinged door. 

Och ! rnony a nicht hae T sat in my glory, 
Observin' rare scenes as I cringed i' the neuk ; 

An' eagerly listen'd to some rongh-quarried story. 
That in time I micht polish an' print i' the beuk. 

A jollier lot never swigged a libation 

Of the Star's tripple X. or the famed Linky dew ; 
We laugh'd at morality, — swore at starvation, — 

Fient a farthin' cared we for the warl' or you. 

An' wha 'mong us a' like dame Thinshank, sae vogie, 
Wha hadna been sober for years, it is said. 

Like a sensible wife, droon'd life's cares in the cogie, 
Then sang hallelujahs blin'-fou in her bed. 

An' wha 'mang us a' like that beauty o' Erin, 
Wha's look was a law, an' wha's tongue had a wecht ; 

On Saturday e'enin' — blest be Kathleen o' Tehrin, 
For her bowld spirit cow'd whan we yokit to fecht. 

On Sunday, wi' marks on oor foreheads like Cain, 
We fustled an' fuddled like the blades o' St Giles ; 

While the parson, douce man, for the pious was prayin', 
We read penny novels an' sang " Annie Lyles." 



FAREWEEL TO THE GARRET. 113 

'Tis an auld quoted proverb — mayhap an' a true ane — 
" The nearer the Kirk an' the farther frae gude ;" 

But distance, ye see, maitters sma' to a fou ane — 
Though a million o' miles or the tenth o' a rood. 

Some folk will persist in that usquabae drives us 
To the den o' perdition, or whate'er ye may ca't ; 

But we ken, by experience, the drappie revives us. 
Like a flee droon'd in milk smother'd ower wi' some 
saut. 

We pester'd the doctor, baith winter an' simmer ; 

The tailor we dodged o' his rent — decent loon — 
He kent well aneuch, though he roupit oor timmer. 

They wadna hae brocht, at the Cross, half-a-croon. 

What wi ducks, pups an' drakes, an' wi' dogs, cats an' 
rabbits, 

We scunner'd the meatman a'maist frae his shop ; 
He swore he'd nae langer pit up wi' oor habits, 

Sae what cu'd we do, honest folk, but — elope. 

We're flittet — ay are we — an' sair's the vexation. 
The jail's but a stane-cast, an' fair in our view ; 

We're sober an' douce — for a sad reformation 
Somehoo has come ower's — but I dinna ken lioo. 

Frae Yule-nicht to June, an' frae June to December, 
Kicht hearty we lived — rags an' banes though we 
were — 

Wi' the greatest o' pleasure I'll ever remember 
The auld flaichy garret, wi' the dark sliddery stair. 



114 LA teste's poems. 



LIZZIE'S AWA'. 



D'ye mind on sweet Lizzie, wi' the rich curls sae 
flaxen ? 

Ye cudna but lo'ed her as soon as ye saw her, 
Wi' a face truly fair, an' the purest o' Saxon, 

A broo like a godess, an' e'e like a star. 
The lassie had lads by the dozen wha woo'ed her, 

An' bragg'd aboot marriage — but she cheated 
them a'. 
A rich, generous laird, wi' a bosom that lo'ed her, 

Has wed the fair Lizzie — an' Lizzie's awa'. 

Lang, lang may they live truly happy thegither. 

An' buds o' affection spring up by their side ; 
May the love o' her young heart for him never wither, 

An' lang may the bridegroom delight in his bride. 
The scornfu' may sneer, an' the envious covet : 

What o' that ? she's his lady in spite o' them a' — 
The flower o' his heart, an' he'll cherish an' love it, 

An' ne'er rue the day he took Lizzie awa'. 

May his joys be as fresh as the bay by the water. 

His hopes ever bright in the gleam o' her smile ; 
Ever blest in the love o' the Highlander's daughter 

Be the true-hearted son o' the Emerald Isle. 
Saft, saft as the rill frae the fountain-source flowin' 

Be her song in the evenin' — '' Bowld Erin Go 
Bragh ;" 
An' bosoms, true bosoms, wi' gratitude glowin' 

Will ever remember sweet Lizzie awa'. 



IN MEMORIAM. 11^ 

IN MEMORIAM. 

W. R. Esq., Cullen. 

Cradled by the sea, upon a rocky brae, 

Whose hoarse wave hush'd his infancy to sleep, 
Where Cullen hails Aurora's earliest ray 

Like golden arrow shooting o'er the deep, 
A son of toil, who lived too short to reap 

The fruit of industry and genius rare, 
Death's bony hand, remorseless in its sweep, 

Untimely swept the generous millionaire — 
The honour'd and beloved of CuUen's civic chair ! 

Prostrated in his prime, ere .well returned 

From sunny China's oriental strand : 
Strong was the patriotic love which burned 

Within his bosom for that rock-girt land. 
His native sea-lashed steep, where life's last sand 

But lately ran, e'en in the prime of years 
Calmly he died, amid a tear-dew'd band. 

Borne to the tomb— the peer of all compeers — 
By Cullen's heroic files, his sorrowing volunteers ! 

Grand was his destiny — the poor-born boy 

A man of wealth by industry became ; 
We mourn to think he lived not to enjoy 

That wealth well earned and an honoured name. 
True energy was his — his base of fame ; 

In danger daring, in life's battle brave, 
In friendship filial, and in love a flame. 

Peace to the hero of the ocean wave. 
Who now untimely fills a deep but honour'd grave ! 

112 



116 LA teste's POExMS. 



LAMENT OF THE HIGHLANDER'S QUEEN. 

TO HER MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY. 

Hail ! home of sweet memories, and hopes early 
blighted, 

And hail ! ye wild solitudes, haunts of repose ; 
In thy shades let my soul, long in sorrow benighted, 

Find a haven of rest, a respite from its woes. 
On my heart's sacred tablet are deeply engraven, 

Each spot oft frequented by mountain and glade ; 
Ever blest in his smile, who made earth seem a heaven, 

The beloved of my soul, the lamented — the dead. 

Blow softly, ye Zephyrs, and waft me serenely 

The perfumes diffused by the broom of Braemar — 
Arise, fairest Cynthia, majestic and queenly, 

And linger awhile o'er the " dark Lochnagar." 
Each grotto and bower, in my solitude roaming. 

In thy silvery sheen, seem as bright as of yore ; 
But the eye that was wont to smile love in the 
gloaming. 

Will smile on the Queen of the Highlands no more. 

In melody woke o'er the mountains the morn, 

But where that Elysian melody now ? 
Time flew on love's light wing, for lightly were borne 

The cares of the crown that encircled my brow. 
Dull now in mine ear sounds the pibroch's shrill 
number, 

That of yore gave a charm to the dear hallo w'd scene ; 
The matrons of Mar pillow'd peacefully slumber. 

But sad throbs the heart of the Highlander's Queen ! 



LAMENT OF THE HIGHLANDER'S QUEEN. . 117 

Gently the dews of the evening are falling, 

Bespangling the beauties of nature and art ; — 
There, Ms handiwork tracing, fond memories recalling, 

Afresh rend the wounds of the widow'd in heart. 
No more shall thy foot brush the bell from the 
heather — 

The wild deer pursuing o'er the mountains of Mar ; 
No more shall we view from thy summit together, 

The land of my fathers — thou loved Lochnagar. 

Hush'd his bugle's soft sounding, which oft from the 
mountain, 

Ee-echoing afar rent the odorous air, 
Giving life to the flow of my heart's sacred fountain 

Ere its channel was chok'd with the sands of despair. 
King of the bony hand, remorselessly cruel. 

Untimely and swift sped thy merciless dart. 
From my diadem tearing my heart's dearest jewel — 

Trampling to ashes the gem of my heart. 

Thou skeleton shadow, alike ever looming 

O'er the cot and the palace, what havoc ye make ! 
Our hearts dearest hopes and affections entombing. 

Then leaving those loving hearts lonely to break. 
Chant, chant ye wild warblers, your matins at morrow, 

They charm not, though dulcet, the ear of the grave ; 
The Queen of the Highlands dearest solace in sorrov^ 

Be the love of her people, ever loyal and brave ! 

God Save the Queen ! 



118 LA teste's POEMS. 

THE PEESENTATIOK 
I've kent fools gi'e a fool a gowden ticker, 

A glutton pouch a case, knife, fork, an' spoon ; 
I've kent auld maids — an' maist o' them's gey siccar — 

Present a parson wi' a pulpit goun ! 
He leuch in's sleeve, an' toom'd the reekin' bicker, 

An' dootless hoped they'd raise his stipend soon. 
Why throw awa' yer substance on sic rogues. 
When men o' worth can scarce get brose an' brogues ? 

Hooever, I'm richt proud to notice here, 
Ye've hit the nail upo' the head for aince ; 

Sic men — tlie donors — 'sveel deserve a cheer — 

It shows they're blest wi' mair than common sense ; 

An' weel wat I, ye couldna waur'd yer gear 
Upon a mair deservin' man, Heaven kens, 

Than oor good Bailie ; for he's ever been 

Impartial magistrate — the poor man's frien'. 

For ever toiling for the public good. 

Unwearied, unrewarded, day by day 
He led the van, the brunt of battle stood — 

The people's champion, and the sick man's stay. 
Yer toon's abuses, whan nae ither could. 

He took the broom an' swept them all away ! ' 
This is nae greasy flattery ; na, forsooth, 
Ye ken yersel's I'm writin' but the truth. 

All honour to the worthy, good an' true, 
If foe he has may he in darkness howl ; 

Were proud to think there still exist a few * 

Who can appreciate nobleness of soul. 



THE PRESENTATION, 119 

Long steam the tea-pot, and his lady brew 

That which is better than the toddy bowl ! 
While brose an' brochan shall this carcase nourish, . 
I'll sing — Let Elgin and the Bailie flourish ! 



LAUEA LEE. 



The sunlicht was dyin' 

As the maniac sat sighin', 
On a cliff, whaur the waves dash'd their foam at his feet, 

And snell blew the blast, 

Frae the bleak cloudy wdst ; 
But he feltna its cauld win' nor chill drivin' sleet. 

Thro' the mist o' the twilicht. 

The haze o' the sky-licht — 
His e'e peer'd afar o'er the turbulent sea, 

He had look'd lang an' sair 

Till he raved in despair, 

For the barque wi' his fair — 

His adored Laura Lee. 

The days circled eerie. 

The nichts waned sae weary — 
She had linger'd sae lang on her wild wavy way ; 

Despondin' he sigh'd. 

But his lang absent bride 
Ne'er cam', oranged-blossom'd, nor in nuptial array. 

Deep, deep, 'neath the billow, 

Nor the yew, nor the willow — ' 



120 LA teste's poems. 

Mark her spot o' repose on the broad briny sea, 
Whaur the ocean winds rave — 
'Neath the huge crescent wave, 
In her cauld coral grave, 
Lies liis loved Laura Lee. 

As he sigh'd in his sadness, 

He dreamed in his madness — 
The barque roll'd a wreck on the mountainous wave ; 

In his brain-madden'd dream. 

He could hear her last scream — 
An' he dash'd o'er the rock in his frenzy to save. 

The pointed cliffs tore him, 

The wild waves dash'd o'er him. 
As they roar'd, as tlfey roU'd toward the steep rocky lee ; 

One wild look he ga'e, 

O'er the broad boiling bay — 

Then sank 'neath the spray, 

To his lov'd Laura Lee. 

O'er the spot whaur he slumbers, 

Saft, mermaid, thy numbers. 
As ye glide drippin'-lock'd o'er the crest o' the wave — 

'Mid the white showery surge, 

Chant ye plaintive his dirge. 
While he rocks in the depths o' some hard hollow cave. 

Ye nymphs o' the ocean. 

In tender devotion — 
Oh ! bear him away to her tomb in the sea, 

In death mak' him blest. 

May his cheek ever rest — 

Pillow'd soft on the breast, 

0' his loved Laura Lee. 



love's reward. 121 



LOVE'S EEWAKD. 

TO AGNES, 

Many years liae circled o'er me, 

Since thou shed the partin' tear ; 
When fate relentless tore me, 

From thy bosom, Agnes dear. 
Many years o' toil an' sorrow, 

It hath been my lot to brave- 
Since that dark an' cloudy morrow, 

I embark'd upon the wave. 

In tears thy vows were plighted, 

To be faithful, fond, and true- 
When the pale young Luna lighted. 

Heaven's starry brilliant blue. 
And we parted in emotion. 

Which reveal'd love's ardent flame — 
I, to cross the distant ocean, 

Thou, to wait an' weep at hame. 

'Mid the roar of boiling waters. 

In the murky midnicht gloom ; 
When oor shroods were riven to tatters, 

An' we fear'd an ocean tomb, 
Thy fond affection cheer'd me, 

In the fierce tornado's wrath — 
As a guardian angel near'd me. 

An' smooth'd the troubled path. 



122 LA teste's POEMS. 

In the land o' golden treasure, 

Where the sky is ever blue ; 
I toil'd, but toil'd wi' pleasure, 

When I thought o' hame an' you. 
Till fortune smiled an' favour'd 

My toil wi' golden store ; 
An' the fate two fond hearts sever'd, 

Shall sever them no more. 

! joyous beat my bosom. 

When mine eye beheld the shore ; 
The blue hills o' heather-blossom, 

0' mine own loved land once more. 
But a thousand times more raptured, 

Throbb'd my bosom — noo a flame- 
When in mine ear ye whisper'd, 

" That ye loved me still the same." 

Many years hae waned in sorrow. 

Many weary lonely years ; 
But each future comin' morrow, 

Shall be smiles instead o' tears. 
My heart, my gold I render, 

To thee, my best beloved — 
Sae faithful, true an' tender 

In mine absence hast thou proved. 

We hae long trod Cupid's bowers. 
Let us kneel at Hymen's shrine ; 

Let my hand the orange flowers. 
Mid thy dark brown ringlets twine. 



love's reward. 123 

Sweetly tender the communion, 

'Tween the bridegroom, an' the bride — 

Angels smile on holy union, 
0' the faithful, true, an' tried. 



JEAN ANDEKSON, MY JOE, JEAN. 

Jean Anderson, my joe, Jean, 

Whan ye came hame a bride, 
I thought ye were an angel, Jean, 

Anestlin' by my side. 
Richt merrily I toil'd, Jean, 

An' never dream'd of woe — ^ 
I was happy when ye smiled, Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my joe. 

Eor half-a-dozen years, Jean, 

We jouk'd awa' thegither. 
Till three w^ee coothy kids, Jean, 

Play'd buff about their mither. 
I was the happiest dad, Jean, 

That ever handled hoe. 
Till drinkin' drave ye mad, Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my Joe. 

! dool upon the day, Jean, 

Ye met wi' Lucky Swats : 
She kill'd her ain gudemaii, Jean — 

The Board maun l)oard her brats. 



124 LA teste's poems. 

She held ye on the road, Jean — 
The road nae wife sud go — 

That mony ane has trod, Jean, 
Jean Anderson, my Joe. 



Hoo often did ye promise, Jean, 

To drop the yeasty yill ? 
But aye, somehoo, ye managed, Jean, 

To grab the ither gill. 
Until yer e'en grew blear'd, Jean, 

Yer nose a partin's toe — 
Sair, sair my hairt ye seer'd, Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my joe. 

Yer bairnies, nor yersel', Jean, 

Had neither shirts nor shoes — 
Ye look'd as lank an' lean, Jean, 

As ane o' Pharoah's coos. 
The bed an' blankets, pawn'd, Jean, 

Ye wadna listen — no, 
To my virtuous reprimand, Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my joe. 

The hoose aye in a mess, Jean 

(for fusky fathers sloth) ; 
The frown upon yer face, Jean, 

Wad sour'd a pot o' broth. 
The good bed-stead ye brunt, Jean ; 

We micht as well, ye know. 
Slept on the Cairn o' Mont, Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my joe. 



JEAN ANDERSON, MY JOE, JEAN. 125 

They maistly were my death, Jean — 

Yer daft nocturnal sprees— 
The poison o' yer breath, Jean, 

Wad smored a hive o' bees. 
Your tongue gaed like a bell, Jean, 

A-wagglin to an' fro — 
The burden o't " mair ale," Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my joe. 

In fits at me ye flew, Jean, 

An' tore my coat in twa ; 
Yer back was black an blue, Jean,- 

Wi' dunts agin the wa'. 
Ye broke the crockery-ware, Jean, 

Gar'd pots an' pans play so ; 
But little did ye care, Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my joe. 

Praise be ! ye've learn'd at last, Jean, 

To shun the wauy o' sin ; 
An' like a sensfu' wife, Jean, 

Ye've " pitten in the pin." 
Frae Lucky Swats ye shrink, Jean, 

That wrocht sae muckle woe ; 
Ye've seen the ills o' drink, Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my joe. 

There's Jock, an' Nell, an' Lizz, Jean, 

As happy as their sire ; 
My head wi' joy plays bizz, Jean — 

Yer sober at the fire. 



126 LA teste's poems. 

Smile like yersel' again, Jean ; 

I'll dream nae mair of woe ; 
Come to my heart, my ain Jean, 

Jean Anderson, my joe. 



THE GIPSY GIEL FOR ME. 

In a woody vale, 
In the fairy dale. 

Her bleach'd white tent is seen ; 
Xear the streamlet's purl 
Sleeps the gipsy girl — 

The dark-lock'd gipsy queen. 

'Neath the moon's pale beams, 
•0 ! bright are her dreams 

Of love and her fatherland ; 
Her beautiful head 
On her soft hand laid, 

The pride of her free-born band. 

! the gipsy girl, the gipsy girl. 
Fair Nature's child is she : 
There's a love in her eye 
That will never die — 
! the gipsy girl for me. 

She careth not 

For the palace or cot : 

Free, free she must live and die ; 
She loveth to dream 
By the gurgling stream, 

'Neath her own bright starlit sky ; 



THE GIPSY GIKL FOR ME. 127 

111 the calm moonlight. 

In the lone midnight, 
By a holy impulse driven ; 

On a seraph's wing, 

Like a spirit thing, 
She soars thro' the vault of heaven. 

! the gipsy girl, the gipsy girl, 
So romantic, fond, and free ; 

There's a love in her eye 

That wiU never die — 
! the gipsy girl for me. 

There are cheeks more red 

Than the gipsy maid. 
But none of a nobler mein ; 

For an eye of fire 

My soul to inspire — 
! give me the gipsy queen. 

Some love the fair 

With the auburn hair. 
And the languishing eye of blue ; 

But give me the girl 

With the raven curl, 
And an eye of the darkest hue ! 

O ! the gipsy girl, the gipsy girl, 
Fair Nature's child is she : 

There's a love in her eye 

That wiU never die — 
! the gipsy queen for me ! 



128 LA teste's poems/ 



MY BONNY EOSA EAY 

The rude nor' win' an' foamy linn 

In wintry music blend, 
Wi' cloods o'ercast Heaven's concave vast, 

While snaw-flakes fast descend, 
Dark as my soul, whan sorrow lowers, 

December's sunless day ; 
Nae gleam o' hope its radiance pours, 

My bonny Rosa Eay, 
Tae cheer the lazy, lanesome hours. 

My bonny Eosa Eay. 

The burly blast bears back the past. 

Ilk scene remember'd well ; 
The lowe that burn'd, the love ye spurn'd, 

Nane ken sae weel's yersel' ; 
Thy vows, like buds in flowery youth. 

But blossom'd to decay. 
O ! waes me for the maddening truth. 

My bonny Eosa Eay, 
" The course o' true love ne'er ran smooth," 

My bonny Eosa Eay. 

Though circlin' years hae waned in tears, 

Nor brocht ae balm tae me, 
My heart as true — I kenna hoo — 

Still beats the same for thee. 



MY BONNY ROSA RAY. 129 

Thy face, sae fair, I fondly trace 

Light as a rosy ray ; 
Time canna shade its halo less, 

My bonny Eosa Kay ; 
Nor tears its impress deep efface. 

My bonny Eosa Eay. 

O ! sayna now, love's hallow'd lowe 

Nae mair thy bosom gleams ; 
Why melt my hopes, like April drops, 

In morning's balmy beams ? 
Come, soothe me wi' thy saftest strain — 

Thy holiest, happiest lay — 
Smile like a rainbow in the rain. 

My bonny Eosa Eay ; 
An' be my snowdrop ance again, 

My bonny Eosa Eay. 

There's nocht can charm, there's nocht can warm, 

Nor cankerin' cares remove. 
There's nocht can cheer oor wanderin's here 

Like lassie's tender love. 
Her smile the gloomiest clood dispels. 

Her voice like angel's lay. 
Of golden lands, unseen, she tells, 

My bonny Eosa Eay ; 
Guide thou me, then, to Eden's vales. 

My bonny Eosa Eay. 



132 LA teste's poems. 



BOOKS AN' BEEF. 

" An' little of the great world can I speak" — 

So said Othello many years ago — 
" Save what pertains" to broils, an' boils, an' steak. 

Sheep's plucks, sheep's heads an' trotters in a row. 
Pigs' tripes, pigs' draughts, &c., " once a week." 

They're first-rate grubbin for the poor, ye know. 
La's head poetic's fairly smored, puir fellow, 
'Mang skins o' sheep, now^ts' hides, an' tons o' tallow. 

'Tis wondrous the vicissitudes of life — 
I sold the book, an' noo I'm sellin' beef; 

I used the hammer lately — noo the knife — 
I'll be your Provost yet — that's my belief 

I keep a saleswoman — troth a clever wife — 
I'm getting up — in fact I'm butcher chief ; 

I fed the mental first — 'twas a fine feast, 

'Tis fair I should but feed the carnal neist. 

Prime Kellas mutton — ready-money prices — 
The banes cut out — that gies ye double meat ; 

An' steak, Al, richt jolly dauds o' slices — 
Eibs, rumps, and jiggots — kidneys fresh an' sweet — 

To ladies who love jelly, and it nice is, 
I beg to state I've capital nowts' feet, 

Ox tails for soup — mock-turtle soup, ye ken. 

An' sautit tongues to eat wi' cock or hen. 



THE duke's awa'. 133 

My number — faith if I can recollect, 

Ye'll ken me by my horns abeen the door ; 

If I'm nae in, or gin the door be sneck't, 
Jist help yersel' as folk hae deen afore. 

Ye'll patronise me a', as I expect, 
An' I'll be civil t'ye — ay an' more — 

Gin ony 'o ye haena paid yer account, 

Pay't noo — I'se gi'e ye a' a dram an' some discount. 

I feel sae muckle, monstrous in mysel', 

I've challeng'd Jamie Mace the pugilistic king. 

I've got a thrist for noo — oh, dinna tell — 
For man's brutality I hate to sing ; 

But he'll be here per Caledonian rail, 

An' by-an -by the fechtin' v^arl' will ring. 

That stout La Teste, of exquisite address, 

Has truly made his majesty a — mess. 



THE DUKE'S AWA'. 

Wow ! willawins, that I sud scrieve. 
The dolefu' line, an' greet an' grieve ; 
He's gane, ower true, an' nae reprieve, 

Erae death's sure thraw, 
Och-hon ! we scarcely can believe 

The Duke's awa. 

Ye droothy sooter blades o' Moray. 
Bung a' yer lap-stanes doon in sorrow 



134 LA teste's poems. 

Bleak dawn'd the inauspicious morrow, 

Death gied the ca' — 
He'll never len' a last nor borrow, 

The Duke's awa'. 

Your Crispin he in weal an' strife, 
Boot-mauker maistly a' his life 
To noble Duff, the Lord o' Fife, 

At Innes Ha ! 
A better never handled knife — 

The Duke's awa'. 

His Lordship may rin barefit noo, 
For wha could finish boot or shoe 
liike Jeemes, his Grace, the staunch an' true, 

King Snob ower a' ; 
He beat yer Elgin cobblers blue — 

The Duke's awa'. 

Ye clorty tanner, currier rogues, 

A' you wha tramp in timmer clogs-r- 

Dealers in auld horse hides an' hogs, 

I redd ye a', 
Yer tanneries open to the dogs — 

The Duke's awa'. 

The batter in the horn may mould, 
The stobs an' awls grow roosty old ; 
The lasts, the worms, unless they're sold, 

May get them a' — 
The bell his last dull knell hath toll'd— 

The Duke's awa'. 



THE duke's awa'. 135 

The country folk will miss him sair, 
He made them mony a thumpin' pair — 
Their bairnies were his special care, 

In weet or snaw. 
Ye'll see him wi' his pock nae mair — 

The Duke's awa'. 

Ye sturdy yochels, gr ane angreet, 

He proved himsel' yer frien' an' vreet — 

He won yer case 'bout soor milk meat, 

He kent the law ; 
Ye needna care noo what ye eat — 

The Duke's awa. 

Of all men born he had the knack 
To gar folk like him — white or black ; 
He never saw a neebor's back 

Stuck to the wa', 
But aye was ready wi' his plack — 

The Duke's awa'. 

Like mony mair, I'm wae to tell 
I miss him sadly noo mysel*, 
As weel's his coothy jug o' ale — 

Or maybe twa — 
A puddin' or a plate o' kail — 

The Duke's awa'. 



We'll see him nae mair at Innes Hoose, 
On birth-nichts whan the game's let loose — 



136 LA teste's poems. 

Certy, the croosest o' the croose 

Within the ha'— 
Like thiinner clap comes bang the news — 

The Duke's awa'. 

epitaph. 
Here lies my Lord's sooter, wha, when living possest 

Many virtues that can't be denied, Sir ; 
Tho' a true patriot Scot, born an' bred on her breast, 

Ne'ertheless, he was French when he died, Sir. 



OOR COCK ROBIK 

Weel, a' the birdies ever hatched, 
Oor Eobin truly is unmatch'd. 
In simmer's shine an' winter's glum 
He's fustlin' there, on Sanny's lum. 
Be't foul or fair, it does'na maitter, 
He's ever at it— happy creature ; 
I ken he's played musician here. 
In oor coach-yard, this five-sax year, 
Gloryin' in his vocal powers, 
In winter's hail and July showers, 
Keeping time — the cheery thing — 
To oor big hammer's merry ring. 

In winter mornin's, drear an' dark, 
Gaen stytin', shiverin' to the wark. 
As soon's the bellows fluff began, 
An' Vulcan wi' his tool in han' — 
A han', I wat, nae lady's palm — 



OOR COCK ROBIN. 137 

Then Eob commenced his mornin' psahn, 
Till Phoebus, like his ain red-breast, 
Eose rouge-like i' the far sou'-east. 
There was a solace in his lay 
Stole o'er my soul, like dawn of day, 
And soft ideas, score by score, 
Eecall'd fond scenes of sunny yore, 
And fancy cloth'd anew the dead 
In purest white and fairest red ; 
And mouldering forms at Eobin's strain 
Sprang into beauteous being again. 
In midnight's meditative hour, 
Eeclining in a vine- clad bower. 
Mine ear, enraptured, drank the note. 
Melodious soft from Philo's throat — 
Far floating on the perfum'd breeze. 
Till lost 'mid groves of verdant trees. 
But dearer far, in winter's day. 
Is Eobin's hope-reviving lay : 
In every note that issues from 
That ruddy throat, it finds a home 
Within the heart ; for Eobin's lays 
Wake glowing hopes of sunnier days — 
That winter wi' his snowy shroud, 
An' blusterin' Boreas howlin' loud. 
Ere lang shall pass, and woodlands ring, 
Eejoicin' at the approach o' spring. 
And Sol. in blazin' warmth come forth 
To light again the dull, cold north. 
And life and love pervade each scene, 
And I^ature wear again her green. 
And every flower anew shall bloom, 
Save those now withering in the tomb. 



138 LA teste's poems. 

I've wonder'd oft, as weel as you, 

Hoo Kobin lives the winter thro' — 

In drifts o' snaw an' frosts sae snell, 

He canna grab a worm itsel', 

Tho' I've jaloos'd at early morn 

Sometimes he's stown John Murdoch's corn ;- 

An' what o' that ? poor Bob maun feed, 

An' John wad never grudge a seed. 

Despairin' man, oh ! tak' a lesson, 

When life's sair wants are on ye pressin' — 

Be thou assured in poortith's woes 

Ye'll aye get taties, sowens, or brose ; 

Tho' hard to drag life's sharp-tined harrows ; 

Eemember thou'rt worth many sparrows ; 

Be not the fool of canker'd care, 

Nor suck the venom of despair ; 

He'll no forget, as Scriptures tell, 

The noble image o' Himsel', 

Tho' to the verge of darkness driven. 

There's still a hope — the hope of Heaven, 



THE AULD JAIL BELL. 

On the auld jail turret, 'tis written, it hung 

In the aulden time — the auld jail bell ; 
Lack-a-day, it will never again be rung, 

An' we'll never mair hear its sonorous knell. 
Hoo on earth can it toll, 
Whan the tongue o't's stole ? 
Alack-a-day for the auld jail bell. 



THE AULD JAIL BELL. 139 

A scamp o' a tinker, I ken him weel, 
Helpit liimser to the auld jail bell ; 
A lawyer loon puffed him up to steal, 
Body an' bulk, the auld jail bell. 
The Cooncil was ca'd, 
An' they maist gaed a' mad, 
Whan they fand they'd been robb'd o' their auld jail 
bell. ' 

A hunner merks Scots was the Cooncil's reward — 

Och-hone ! for the auld jail bell — 
To the cleverest cove wha wad collar the caird. 
An' hang in the Coort-House the auld jail bell. 
They ca'd lang an' sair. 
An' they fand it aince mair — 
An' they fuddl'd a bottle ower the auld jail bell. 

An' ane, in his glee, set a tittin' the tow, 

Will-a-wins, will-a-wins, for the auld jail bell ! 
He tittit, an' tittit, till they rose in a row. 
For it wadna ding-dong, the auld jail bell. 
Hoo on earth cud it dong. 
Whan 'twas minus the tongue ? 
'Tis as dumb as a divat, the auld jail bell. 

Oor Cooncil is clever at logic an' law, 
Alack-a-day for the auld jail bell ; 
But the dog o' a tinker ootwittet them a', 

Whan he cabbaged the tongue o' the auld jail bell 
Bad luck to the loon 
Wha cam' to the toon. 
An' pilfer'd the tongue o' the auld jail bell. 



140 LA teste's poems. 



BEN BOLT. 

! don't ye remember sweet Jean, Ben Bolt, 
Who sang like a mavis at morrow ? — 

Well, she married another out of spleen, Ben Bolt, 
And she left me alone in my sorrow. 

O ! changed are the times, of a truth, Ben Bolt, 
Since we jump'd, romp'd, and putted the stone ; 

The girls that we loved in our youth, Ben Bolt, 
Old maids with moustachios have grown. 

D'ye mind the green bank by the burn, Ben Bolt, 
Where we bask'd in the sun's red ray ? — 

Well, well, 'tis hedged in with thick thorn, Ben Bolt, 
And a hand points — " No passage this way." 

Green grows the grass round the church, Ben Bolt, 
Where grass never burgeon'd before ; 

One would fancy few enter its porch, Ben Bolt, 
Or the weeds would not grow at the door. 

And the Paradise arbour — the boast, Ben Bolt, 
Of our hearts, when the sunlight waned — 

Alack ! it is " Paradise Lost," Ben Bolt, 
And I fear me, 'twill ne'er be " Eegain'd." 

The jail — and the jailor is dead, Ben Bolt, 
Old Scott, the grand ghost of the boys ; 

There's a marvellous tank in its stead, Ben Bolt, 
In which water seldom makes noise. 



BEN BOLT. 141 

D'ye mind on the Plainstones fount, Ben Bolt, 
With the lamp towering high on the top ? 

It has gone to its latest account, Ben Bolt, 
And 'twill ne'er again bubble a drop. 

And the light which we hail'd with a shout, Ben Bolt, 
Which illumin'd the church clock of yore ; 

The " North Pole"- blasts blew it out, Ben Bolt, 
And 'twill never be lit any more. 

D'ye mind on the old Court Bell, Ben Bolt, 
In the dear ancient days which toll'd ? 

Lor-a-me ! how the lawyers did yell, Ben Bolt, 
Somebody swore somebody stole't. 

No more our grave bailies in their robes, Ben Bolt, 

Prepare for the church at the hour ; 
Blue-beetles, and tailors, and snobs, Ben Bolt, 

Lack-a-day, are the ruling power. 

D'ye mind on old Jamie, the bard, Ben Bolt, 
Who fiddled in our ears a Te Deum ? 

He has gone to the old Churchyard, Ben Bolt, 
And his fiddle hangs in the Museum. 



! changed are the days since we sang, Ben Bolt, 
O'er the bowl, while the moon rode high ; 

At eleven, the Bobs, " slap bang," Ben Bolt 
Kick us out, tho' we're ever so dry. 



142 LA teste's poems. 

From his roost in the grey land of Scones, Ben Bolt, 

Our " Auld Cock," crossed the main. 
And we fear they have pick'd his bones, Ben Bolt, 

For he never return'd again. 

The dogs on the highway howl, Ben Bolt, 

No minstrelsy charms the air. 
Save the hoot of a Kafford owl, Ben Bolt, 

And poor is the music there.' 

And the loch where we fish'd for a fry, Ben Bolt, 

While the duck's quack'd merrilie ; 
But where is it now ? 'tis as dry, Ben Bolt, 

As the trunk of the old beech tree. 

On the south they have built on the rigs, Ben Bolt, 
Where we sang 'mong the stocks 'neath the stars ; 

'Twixt the people, the peelers, and the pigs, Ben Bolt, 
E'en now rage tumultuous wars. 

We can bathe no more in the stream, Ben Bolt, 
For 'tis stench'd with a common sewer ; 

Doleful enough is my theme, Ben Bolt, 
Compared with the days of yore. 



WIDOW, I WAD WOO THEE. 143 



WIDOW, I WAD WOO THEE. 

O ! dinna look sae sad an' sair — 

Widow, I wad woo thee ; 
That sombre garb, ! don nae man' — 

Widow, let me sue thee. 
Untie those locks, sae raven sleek, 
An' let them kiss thine olive cheek ! 
Smile, widow, smile, an' bid me speak 

Hoo tenderly I lo'e thee. 

It is not for your yonthfu' charms, 

Widow, I wad woo thee ; 
It is not for those rounded arms. 

Widow, I wad sue thee. 
The tear that trembles in thine e'e 
Awakes a holier love in me ; 
An empire's treasure 1 wad gie 

Gin thou wadst bid me lo'e thee. 



Say, shall I sing my saftest strain. 

Widow, dear, to soothe thee ? 
Then fondly smile — ye little ken 

Hoo tenderly I'd woo thee. 
Though I hae nocht o' warl's gear, 
Nor kindred claim to prince or peer, 
Yet thou shalt hae a heart sincere. 
As lang's it throbs to lo'e thee. 



144 LA teste's poems. 

Thy path with flowers to glory's goal. 

Widow, dear, I'll strew thee ; 
In thee I find a kindred soul, 

Nae wonder though I lo'e thee ! 

Like mountain mist at dawn of morn 

Shall pass away that look forlorn. 

An' thou shalt bless, in years unborn, 

The hour ye bade me woo thee. 



MY VALENTINE TO JUSTITIA IN THE MOON. 

Hard, hard, earth's deep embowell'd ore. 

And hard the whinstane on the hill ; 
But harder still the bosom's core 

That never felt affection's thrill. 
Praise to the gods for evermore — 

No adamantine heart is mine — 
For it can bleed, love, and adore. 

My beautiful, my Valentine ; 
I never knew how dear before 

Thou art to me, sweet Valentine. 

Old Sol may sooner rest at noon. 

With Mercury an hour discourse ; 
Mars, blood red Mars, invade the moon ; 

Earth's streams flow backward to their source ; 



THE FLOWER O' PORTSOY. 145 

Ere my rapt soul cease to commune, 

Justitia, ever fair, with thine. 
Forbid that I, ye powers aboon, 

Should prove a fickle Valentine ; 
While terra turns diurnal roon, 

I'll ever lo'e thee, Valentine, 

O ! waes me for the lonely heart, 

It is indeed a wretched thing ; 
Should fate but will it — do not start — 

I'd pin me to thine apron string. 
Were I a prince, a peer, or bart, 

And several thousand acres mine, 
Earth, sun, nor moon should never part 

I and my lovely Valentine ; 
Shoot, Cupid, kill me with thy dart. 

Or send me down my Valentine ! 



THE FLO WEE 0' POETSOY. 

Aft, aft I hae sigh'd till the '' Flowers o' the Forest," 

'Mang braw blushin' beauties, to the harp's mellow 
strain ; 
In the glee o' my glory, wi' pleasure I've chorus'd 

That dear Scottish ditty, the '' Flower o' Dunblane." 
I hae sung o' rare beauty, an' vine-mantled bowers. 

An' flowers o' rich hue, in my. moments o' joy, 
But the flower I maist cherish is that flower o' the 
flowers, 

Fair Helen, sweet Helen, the flower o' Portsoy. 

K 



146 LA teste's poems. 

The snaw-clrap that peeps thro' the wreath i' the 
mornin', 

I trow is nae purer nor fairer than she ; 
Her smile is a ray o' Aurora adornin' 

The blue ripplin' breast o' an Orient sea. 
Were the son o' auld Priam to appear in her presence, 

He'd swear 'twas the beauty caused the doonfa' o' 
Troy ; 
But unlike her namesake, she is purity's essence, 

Fair Helen, sweet Helen, the flower o' Portsoy. 

Yestreen on my bosom sae happily leanin', 

I spak o* my love — an' she loves in return ; 
O ! fleet flew the hours in the calm starry e'enin', 

As we sat on the bank o' the clear bubblin' burn. 
Deep, deeply I drank then o' love's purest nectar, 

Till my bosom maist burst, in its excess o' joy ; 
An' fondly I swore aye to lo'e an' protect her, 

Fair Helen, sweet Helen, the flower o' Portsoy. 



THE MAID OF TOE-CHLUIK 

Pipe is the blaeberry, red blooms the heather, 

Eich is the breeze with the briar's perfume. 
In the dear haunted dale, where we wander'd together, 

Near the burnie meanderin' thro' whin, brake, an' 
broom. 
Ken ye the cave in the valley up yonder 

O'erhung wi' the willow, whaur the wull doo is 
cooin' ? 
There oft in the gloamin' I've wandered to ponder 

On bonny young Peggy, the maid o' Tor-Chluin. 



ANNIE'S AWA'. 147 

On the brow o' tlie mountain, in bonnet an' plaidy, 

The shepherd's shrill pibroch re-echoed afar : 
In rapture I've sluniber'd till Night's silvery Lady 

Illum'd the broad landscape frae Weyvis to Mar. 
The green-kilted fays, to the burnie that bubbled, 

Danc'd joyous 'mid pearls, the wild blossoms be- 
dewin' : 
'Twas a scene o' enchantment in beauty that doubled 

Whan I row'd in my plaidy the maid o' Tor-Chluin. 

Years, years have roll'd on, which oblivion has 
swallow'd, 

Since we trod the green vale o' affection an' truth ; 
Yet well I remember each spot that we hallow'd. 

In the hey-day of love, an' the morning of youth. 
The wide-spreading willow may wither an' perish, 

The heather-roofd shielan may rot in its ruin ; 
But the memory o' Peggy I'll happily cherish — 

The Eose o' Moniak — the sweet maid o' Tor-Chluin. 



ANNIE'S AWA'. 

Oh ! whaur is the swain, wi' his love on him leanin'. 

That feels not "as merry as a mavis in May ? 
Wha' sae happy as I, in the calm autumn e'enin', 

Toddlin' thro' Bishopmill to the Belle o' the Brae ? 
Her cheek was as fair as the cloud tinged wi' crimson. 
The smile o' her e'e was the licht o' the Ha' ; 
But that smile o' delight. 
Like a meteor of night. 
It has flash'd frae my sight, for my Annie's awa'. 

k2 



148 LA teste's poems. 

Why, destiny, why wilt thou toss me for ever, 

Like a storm- batter'd barque in the trough o' the 
sea? 
My anchor of Hope, too, ah ! why did'st thou sever ? 

On the Eock of Despair T may founder for thee. 
My youth's golden dreamings for ever hae vanish'd. 
An' manhood is wastin' like snaw in a thaw ; 
Thy blows o' the past 
Hae come cruelly an' fast ; 
But the warst is the last, for my Annie's awa'. 

Shall I never more list to those accents so tender — 

The kiss an' caress that I wantonly stole ? 
Ah ! love's lowin' flame's left my heart but a cinder. 

An' a gloom like December has shaded my soul. 
N'ae mair in the e'enin' shall I ramble delighted. 

When the shades o' the gloamin' falls faint in the 
shaw : 

Thou star o' the even, 
And ye silvery seven. 
Light my soul's darken'd heaven, while my Annie's 
awa. 



THE LAEK'S ALEEADY LILTIN' LOOD. 

The lark's already liltin' lood. 
Sweet harbinger o' spring, lassie ; 

An' soon the wee birds in the wood 
Will gar the welkin' ring, lassie. 



THE LARK»S ALREADY LILTIN' LOOD. 149 

Fair earth become a sunny scene, 
Blue skies wi' clouds o' fleecy sheen ; 
An' Nature clon her gayest green, 
An' poets hopefu' sing, lassie. 

The wee wull daisy springs again 

Upon the burnie's shore, lassie ; 
The hawthorn in the fairy den 

Is buddin' as o' yore, lassie. 
Whan Nature's rapt in slumber still, 
Whan Luna tips the big Bin-hill ; 
Then meet me near the wheezie mill, 

Whaur aft we've met afore, lassie. 

! sweetly fa's the gloamin' shade 

On love's devoted pair, lassie ; 
The happy swain, the happier maid, 

Unblanch'd by warl's care, lassie. 
The nectar'd hours fly far too fleet 
Whan glowin' breasts responsive beat ; 
Whan joys in breathin's low and sweet 

They unalloy'd share, lassie. 

Light lapses life, an' light its toils 

Wi' those we fondly lo'e, lassie ; 
A-baskin' in the sunny smiles 

That light thine e'e o' blue, lassie. 
Light lilts the lav'rock on the wing, 
Light wakes the vernal genial spring ; 
Light be oor hearts, and lightsome sing 

" God speed the noble ploo, lassie." 



loO LA teste's poems. 

BONNELLE DE BOEDEAUX. 

To Gironde's green strand, 
To thine own loved land, 

Away o'er the wavy sea — 

To the vine-cover'd bower, 
Where the poplars tower, 

The bower near the orange tree. 
Once more I would roam 
Round thy woodland home. 

In the moonlight eve with thee, 
Bonnelle, 

In the moonlight eve with thee, 

I'm weary of life. 

With its struggles and strife. 

As I dream on the days of yore — 
When we wander'd alone. 
When the bright moon shone 

On the loved that may ne'er meet more ; 
When the Biscay breeze 
Sigh'd soft 'mid the trees. 

And the richest perfumes bore, 
Bonnelle, 

And the richest perfumes bore. 

We were hopeful then, 

Not a care, not a pain ; 
As the golden moments flew 

We dream'd not that years, " 

With their trials and tears. 
Might se'er those hearts so true ; 



DRINK TO THE BAEDS, BOYS. 151 

Still thy voice so clear, 

Even yet in mine ear, 
Sounds soft as a turtle's coo, 

Bonnelle, 
Sounds soft as a turtle's coo. 

Is thy heart still mine ? 

And is mine still thine ? 
'Tis thy lip alone can tell ; 

My soul still clings, 

And its flight ever wings 
To thee and La Gironde's Vale. 

Ere I languish and die, * 

May my last lone sigh 
Be breathed on thy breast, Bonnelle, 

Bonnelle, 
Be breathed on thy breast, Bonnelle. 



- DRINK TO THE BAEDS, BOYS !" 

We hae drunk to the Queen, boys, an' a' the blood- 
royal, 

The army an' navy a bumper hae shared ; 
We've e'en condescended, like true men an' loyal. 

To drink to His Grace, an' my Lord, an' the Laird. 
To the brim ! boys— the brim ! come, replenish yer 
glasses ! 

The toast is far nobler which claims oor regards— 
To the sons o' Apollo, to the pets o' Parnassus ! 

Drink to the bards, boys— drink to the bards ! 



152 LA teste's poems. 

Awa' wi' yer scribes o' prosaical chapter, 

Nature's poet for us — pithy, plaintive, an' terse ; 

! dull must the soul be in melody's raptur' 
That feels not the fire o' his rollickin' verse. 

Kings, princes, and peers having enter'd death's portal, 
In millions may rot through the world's kirkyards ; 

But the loved o' the Nine, in his lay, is immortal- 
Drink to the bards, boys — drink to the bards ! 

His lay can embolden the timid in battle, 

When red war o'erwhelms in its merciless flood ; 
His musical line, 'mid its roar an' its rattle, 

Soothes the souls o' the brave as they welter in 
blood. 
In his lays live the deeds of the hero for ever — 

To the good and the great fame and honour awards ; 
An' virtue, an' beauty, an' grace perish never — 

Drink to the bards, boys — drink to the bards ! 

The flower o' the fairest o' friendship wad wither. 

An' love its delectable holiness loose ; 
An' virtue an' vice wad rin riot thegither, 

Were it no for the lay o' the loved o' the Muse, 
Ethereals can list' to his hummings o'erjoy't. 

An' nymphs dance unseen on the green velvet 
swards ; 
E'en demons rejoice in the lay o' the Poet — 

Drink to the bards, boys — drink to the bards ! 

To Clutha, as bold as the bard o' sweet Coila, 
To Alba, for nane sing sae sweetly as him. 

To the bard o' the martyr'd Queen, AVillie o' Isla, 
Let the bumper be special, an' full to the brim. 



OOR WELCOME TO ALBA, BARD OF VINNY. 153 

May palsy unnerve the base hand o' the critic 

Wha'd blight the fair fame which their country 
awards ; 

To all who are fired with the genius poetic — 
Drink to the bards, boys — drink to the bards ! 



OOE WELCOME TO ALBA, BAED OF VINNY. 

As welcome's the dew to the drocht-deein go wan — 

As welcome's the dawn on a turbulent sea 
To the tempest-toss'd tar, ower the mountain waves 
rowin', 

Sae welcome is Alba to Clutha an' me. 
Wi' pleasure langsyne did we crack o' yer comin', 

As we toom'd a bit tumbler o' toddy atween's, 
Aft I've wish'd to mysel', as a sang I've been thrum- 
min' — 

! for the nicht whan we'll three meet in Jean's. 

An' we're met an' w^e're merry ower a stoup an' a story, 

An' death to the dastard sae darin' as spurn's ; 
'Tween Alba an' Clutha I sit in my glory, 

An' feel as if row'd in the plaidy o' Burns. 
Fill thee a bumper, bard, by the fountain, 

Drink we to Alba, the genial an' free ; 
Bell, bring yer best, bauldest dew o' the mountain, 

'Tis seldom ye sair sic a notable three. 

The bard, ever social, at all times is ready 

The richt hand o' welcome fell prood to hand forth ; 

Doubly welcome is Alba an' Alba s fair lady 
Xo ancient Elgina, the Queen o' the North. 



154 LA teste's poems. 

Ricli in picturesque scene is the valley o' Moray, 
An' rare are her legends o' mountain and glen ; 

There are spots, honour'd Alba, around the auld boro' 
Weel worthy a sang frae thy classical pen. 

Thou shalt tread whaur her bishops aft trod in their 
fatness, 

An' see her philanthropist's cradle of stone, 
An' muse on the fallacy o' pomp, pride, an' greatness 

In the rotting remains o' a glory that's gone. 
On the green banks wi' Clutha thou'lt walk, if thy 
will is, 

Whaur Lossie meanders thro' hazel an' sauch ; 
An' thou'lt see the Museum o' oor Elgin Achilles ; 

The Paradise hero ; the Prince o' the Hauch. 

The biggin' still stands whaur the bonny Prince Charlie 

Slept a nicht i' the toon on his march to the west. 
Ere that monster, the butcher, the Cumberland carlie, 

Dyed the heath wi' the blood o' oor bravest an' best. 
The Provost, bare-pow'd, may present like a flunkey 

The keys o' the city to paupers an' caurds ; 
In a bumper we greet thee, o' real reekin' Linky, 

To thy fireside we drink then, thou honour'd of bards. 

Lang life, love, an' laurel be thine to inherit. 

An' song upon song cheer the creatures of clay ; 
May they find as they read, the desponding in spirit, 

A solacing warmth in the lowe o' thy lay. 
An' bright to the last be thy sun in December, 

Brightly dawn on thy soul the Elysian morn, 
Thy mem'ry, futurity revere an' remember, 

An' thy lays still delight generations unborn. 



EPISTLE TO ISABELLA. 155 

Sad will we be when reluctant ye lea' us 

To cheer wi' yer presence yer ain Forfar folks ; 
Mayhap ye'll come North soon, an' bide a month wi' us, 

For Clutha will miss yer delectable jokes. 
Be healthy, be happy, as bards should be ever, 

Whose souls are love's essence, whose mission's 
divine ; 
An' he that wad dare blight thy fame, may he never 

Escape his deserts in the fire o' thy line. 



EPISTLE TO ISABELLA, MELBOURNE, 
AUSTRALIA. 

A thousand sunbeams smile upon thy path — 

There ! that's the style which I commence a letter ; 

I've had my supper, and a splendid bath — 
Not Turkish — no, I like a cold much better. 

And now I have — which poet seldom hath — 
An hour to write, for I've been long thy debtor, 

But thou shalt have the news at last, my dear. 

Of all that was, and is, and shall be'Jiere. 

A letter is, indeed, a pleasant thing 

From father, mother, sister, brother, lover ; 

Lo ! how we fly to meet Mike's double ring. 
Triumphantly stools, tables, tumbling over 

To gain the billet, borne on Love's light wing. 

With good news fraught, within that well-sealed 
cover. 

And which we open half afraid, half sad. 

In case the news therein contained be bad. 



156 LA teste's poems. 

I had one t'other day, myself, which came 
Some five-six thousand miles across the wave 

From an old girl (whom I decline to name) 

And who, I thought, had long since found a grave, 

And gone to heaven to claim her diadem, 
And saintly sing the hallelujian stave ; 

But when I read the note the barque had carried, 

I found her still alive, and well, and — married ! 

'Tis said that " absence makes the heart grow fonder" — 
(I'm sure I've read somewhere the line above). 

But my idea is, 'tis all a blunder, 

Especially with girls, as I can prove ; 

For new associations tear asunder 

The older cobwebs of her earlier love — 

She'll wed, by George, the first good-looking rake 

That pops the question — ay, and no mistake. 

And quite right, too ! why, what's the use in w^aiting ? 

For hope deferred the longing heart makes sick ; 
To Hymen's altar bolt o'er bar and grating, 

And never mind what sober people speak ; 
That shuffling, shunting, canting, and debating 

Would cool the hottest passion in a week. 
Go at it, then, and never mind the laughter 
Of foolish folk — we'll think of these things after. 

" But this is all irrelevant," say'st thou, 
Sweet Isabella, " to the long'd-for news." 
Pardon me, dear (pray, don't let's have a row). 

That muse of mine is still the wayward muse. 



EPISTLE TO ISABELLA. .157 

But I'll begin — I will — in earnest now ; 

And, if you please, allow me, love, to choose 
For my first subject all our numerous marriages — 
Breakfasts and blossoms, bouquets, bridecakes, car- 
riages. 

You recollect the beautiful Diana — 

She wed a soldier-lad the other day ; 
Miss Dulce, who played upon the old piano, 

Holds honeymoon somewhere near Morecombe Bay ; 
Miss Sugar-Plum, as sweet as heavenly manna. 

On Hymen's bosom almost melts away. 
The nights have been so hot e'en to oppression, 
One can't get sleep for fleas and perspiration. 

Miss Marion Myrtle, of the West End cottage. 
Who used to wear th' enormous crinoline — 

She hooked, last night, a miser in his dotage, 
W^hose wealth, on dit, is in itself a mine ; 

The envious say she'll sup but sautless pottage, 
But never mind, the gold is all divine ; 

When beauty fades, and love nought but a name. 

The gold will still be current all the same. 

Miss Hyacinth, the good old maiden lady, 

Got sick of single-blessedness at last ; 
She first kicked out her little lap-dog Teddy, 

Then in the grate her old leghorn cast ; 
In new-cut canvas sailed, harpooned and ready, 

A walrus-bachelor came blowing past — 
My stars ! she made the obdurate monster smart 
When deep she plunged the weapon in his heart. 



158 LA teste's poems. 

Miss Primrose, ever on the qui vive, heard, 
With no small joy Miss Hyacinth's success ; 

She cocked her cockernony for the laird — 

In his heart's bower the Primrose found a place ! 

Miss Daisy and Miss Dahlia both have paird, 
And thousands here are happy, more or less. 

From fifteen up to fifty. 111 be bound, 

There's not a single spinster to be found. 

And as for births, why bless you, Isabella, 
We've so prolific grown, as it appears, 

The man of registration here, poor fellow. 
Hasn't had a wink of sleep for several years. 

It's all the same — noon, night, and morning mellow — 
Some laughing, others joking, some in tears ; 

The tailor's lane leading to his domicile 

Is choked with doughty sires — say, half-a-mile ! 

Eight jolly jokes they crack on one another, 
And don't the rascals make a merry brawl, 

With fond inquiries — " How is Ma," or " Mother ?" 
" Bess has a boy," or " Marjory a gal ;" 

Of course we know it must be one or t'other, 
It's just their kind enquiring way — that's all. 

God bless them in their babies and their wives. 

These fruits of love are proofs of happy lives ! 

A lady preacher here, of poplar height, 

Address'd the rogues the other night, though rainy ; 
'' There's not,'' said she, "in all your town a wight 

So taxed as he — the Eegistrar — not any ; 



EPISTLE TO ISABELLA. . 159 

Forbear one week, and let bis soul deliglit 

In reading my " Pilgrim's Progress/' price a penny. 
On my beart's tablet I tbe boon will book it" — 
It wouldn't do — tbe lady had to hook it. 

Our great accoucheurs here, of both the genders, 
Are making money fast, like mussel shells ; 

The Misses Pink, our baby-linen vendors, 
Are getting home material by the bales ; 

Baths, baby-bottles, buns, and large wire-fenders, 
Coachees, and cradles, meet with ready sales ; 

An extra parson — one of our revivals — 

Does nothing else but christen new arrivals. 

There's one good thing, we've scarcely had a death 
For some five years, of any note or name — 

Except, perhaps, the wheezing out of breath 
Of some starved pauper no one cares to claim. 

'Tis rather pleasant tumbling such beneath. 
For they were troublesome above, ahem ! 

Bah ! what's a pauper's corpse — corruption, loathing. 

That's scarcely worth the commonest grave-clothing. 

'Tis very like it never did possess 

The thing we call a soul ; and 'tis as well 

For us, the upper class, the favoured race 

Who scorned on earth with such a wretch to dwell. 

And if it had — no doubt there is a place 
For such as it — believe me, Isabel, 

The upper class never could enjoy 

Heaven's purity with such a coarse alloy. 



160 LA teste's poems. 

We liave an M.D. here extremely clever — 
A sort of soul-retaining necromancer — 

Who will not let poor soul and body sever, 
However bad consumption, cough, or cancer, 

It matters not, he cuts and cures for ever. 
For none in Britain beats him as a lancer, 

And hence the reason why our deaths are few ; — 

We haven't an undertaker worth a sou. 

So much for these three subjects. To go on — 
You recollect the dam-stones, don't you, dear ! 

The busy Mill, the Gas House — all are gone. 

And where they stood there stands on each a pier — 

A bridge shaped something like a semi-zone 
Magnificently spans the Lossie here, 

Which is the world's wonder and surprise. 

And which is called the " Bridge of Saints," not Sighs. 

There was some sighing, too, about the affair. 
But what could one expect from Bishopmill ? 

Some two-three snobs, some ditto tailors there 
Behoved to carry through the House a bill 

Of interdict, which made wise people stare ; 
But this was my Lord Ordinary's will — 

" Let not the lab'rers cease one hour from toil, 

But let them finish quick the noble pile." 

And so they did, and that's a fact, in spite 
Of all the Bishopmillians, old and young ; 

A flagstaff, too, a thousand feet in height, 
Stands in the centre, firmly fixed and strong, 



EPISTLE TO ISABELLA. IGi 

And at its summit waves, of purest white, 
A banner with the words — if I'm not wrong — 

" Come unto me, ye naked, lame, and blind" — 
I couldn't read the rest, owing to the wind. 

Our progress in morality of late — 

Goodwill, religion, piety, and peace — 
You will conceive much better when I state 

We've pensioned all our parsons and police, 
Our lawyers, too, were starving, small and great, 

Through the confounded scarcity oi fleece — 
A man of bulk, who pitied their condition, 
Went round amongst us, with a large petition, 

To which our Auld Cock Bird subscribed a pound ; 

I gave, myself, I think, some three or four ; 
And everybody, as in duty bound. 

Gave something as the beggar passed the door. 
The sum amounted to — in numbers round — 

Some fifteen hundred thousand pounds and more, 
With which we bought a bark from Captain Maitland, 
And sent them on a fishing voyage to Shetland. 

Our world of politics is very quiet ; 

Old England's might is on the wane of late ; 
What cares John Bull for that ? Give him his diet 

Of beef and beer — he's right, at any rate. 
Our Emerald Fenian brothers still run riot, 

And Canada will soon become a State ; 
Your own much-loved Australia, I've a notion. 

Will by an' by be Empress of the ocean. 



162 LA teste's poems. 

French Nap. has entered second childhood's years, 
And turned a turnkey — funny, is it not ? 

Preparing, Guy Fawkes-like, as it appears, 
A sort of submarine Gunpowder Plot, 

With which he means to blow to heaven's high spheres, 
Or sink them in the Gulf, that murderous lot 

Who shot poor Max., and made his sweet young wafe 

A widow and a lunatic for life. 

Little care I though every king should kick 

'Tween heaven and earth at nothing — nothing more ; 

But woman suffering makes one's heart grow sick — 
Whose destiny we hopelessly deplore. 

I'd rather mount a kiln of burning brick 

Than mount a throne knee-deep in native gore. 

When rotten monarchy comes tottering down, 

I woe's me for the head that wore the crown. 

Adieu, sweet Isabella dear, adieu ! 

Bless me, I thought 'twas only ten, but hark ! 
Our old church clock, I'm blowed, is chiming two ; 

The old cock crows to Tiber's blithesome bark, 
I'll go to bed and dream dear dreams of you, 

Then up at six as lightsome as a lark. 
In all that's beautiful may thou be blest — 
Yours very truly, tenderly. La Teste. 



A FOU fallow's midnight REFLECTIONS. 163 

A FOU FALLOW'S MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS. 

Weel, this beats me an' mortal ken, 
For twa-three blessed lioors I've gane 
Struttin' up an' doon ca'in' for the den 

In Tinker's Clossie, 
An' here I am, my leefu' lane, 

Plumpin' in Lossie. 

I'm no sae very fou, I'm thinkin', 
A dizzen quarts were a' oor driukin' ; 
A gill or twa wi' Joe an' Jenkin 

Wound up the batter, 
An' here I stick, a sonnet clinkin'. 

Knee-deep in water. 

Nae doot I'm aff the straucht a wee — 
There's ae screw loose, there's maybe three ; 
I've tint the toon, or it's tint me, 

For, weel I wat, 
It's no whaur Elgin used to be, 

I'm sure o' that. 

I wadna for the warl' a wicht 
Sud see me sic a sorry sicht ; 
In latitude clean lost ootricht 

Through this hang'd rumpus ; 
' Fou fowk sud never sail at nicht 
Withoot a compass. 



I feel the earth gaen furlin' roon — 
The very thing, I'll beat a croon, 



l2 



164 LA teste's poems. 

That wiled awa' the gude auld toon ; — 

E'en Lossie water 
Is runnin' up instead o' doon, 

But that's nae matter. 

The trees hae grown an awfu' heicht 

Sin' I wis here the ither nicht ; 

The hay coles seem, in Cynthia's licht, 

To haud a jig ; 
An' yonder spans the burn sae bricht 

The gran' new brig. 

The starns themsel's are dancing fou ; 
I see twa moons — the auld an' new — 
Thae pleasant planetary crew 

Play buff thegither, 
While cloods, like phantom ships, sail through 

Blue seas o' ether. 

Losh, man ! it's gran', heaven's pearl'd sweep ; 
But, lor ! it's cauld doon here knee-deep ; 
I'll stan't nae langer, oot I'll leap 

An' seek the toon. 
Michty ! sud I but fa' asleep 

I'm sure to droon. 

I'm surely wi' some nichtmare hauntit, 
I canna catch the thing that's wantit ; 
I'm oot, hurrah ! I'm ower clean cantit — 

Confoon the beer ; 
Deil tak' the careless scamp that plantit 

A funbush here. 



A FOU fallow's midnight REFLECTIONS. 165 

Is that a hoose ? ay, troth it is, man ; 
Is't Willie's think ye ? troth it's his, man ; 
Hand straucht afore ye ; min' yer phiz, man, 

Mang thorny boughs ; 
Steady ! follow up yer niz, man — 

The road's a' knowes. 



As for mysel' I canna see — 

Hiccup — the u — hie — teelitee 

In makin' roads — an' that's nae lee — 

Sae awfu' broad, 
Especial when a lad like me 

Has sic a load. 

Gin I dird this wauy muckle langer. 
Depend upon't I'll roose in anger ; 
I'm like a circus colt — say Sanger — 

Progressive nane ; 
It's a' the alewife's faut — hie — dang her ! 

I'm ower again. 

It's nae use fechtin' wi' ye, Johny, 
Yer ane for me the nicht ower mony ; 
But gin the morn was come, by bonny, 

I'se kirkwards edge. 
An' ca' upon a certain crony 

An' sign the pledge. 



Crack that nut noo, thou wanton carle, 
Wha mak's sic fools o's i' the warl', 



166 LA teste's poems. 

Nor claes nor can'le licht nor farl 
Within the hoose ; 

An' sair to bide is woman's snarl 

Whan tongues get loose. 

I hae ye there, my jolly blade ; 
I've got thenoo nae scaulding jade, 
An' yet, I wish to Heaven I haed, 

For this good reason, 
I wad hae miss'd this mad parade, 

Nocturnal, bleezin'. 

Praise be, it's nae ower late to men', — 
I'se swear I'll ne'er get fou again, 
E'en tho' as dry's an Afric' plain 

Or Suez Isthmus — 
My resolution's fairly ta'en, • 

At least till Christmas. 

What wad the fowk say cud they see 
A fitless lump lyin' here, like me, 
Grippin' by the very grass — hic-he ! — 

For fear I fa' ; 
I'm sensible it winna dee — 

jS'a, na, John, na. 

I've tint my snuff-box an* my bonnet, 

Wi' Scotia's siller thistle on it — 

A bad case, John ; but ye mak' fun o't, 

Fine pleased, forsooth ! 
Ye never think aboot the sin o't — 

Ochone, that drooth ' 



A FOU fallow's midnight REFLECTIONS. 167 

Its no sae muckle bein' fou, 

But, man, it blunts, 'tween nie an' you, 

Oor finer feelin's ; deadens, too, 

Oor best affections ; 
It's aye a ook or I get through 

My soor reflections. 

I'll stick, I will, to lemon water — 

A penny per glass is no great matter — 

An' drop this mad, self-murderin' batter 

(Killin' soul an' body) ; 
I'se wed a wife, get hale an' fatter, 

An* jink the toddy. 

Gin oor half-dotard Cooncil folk 
Wad men' the font somebody broke, 
I'd drink pure water till I'd choke, 

Nor dream o' beer ; 
It's like the lichtin' o' the clock — 

Braw time neist year. 

Losh me ! the moon's far wastward ridden — 
She micht, at least, till daylicht bidden — 
While here, atween twa hedges hidden, 

A worthless wicht. 
Lie I, like grumphy on a midden, 

Whilk sairs me richt. 



Is that a rainbow think ye, John, 
That's risin' in the eastern zone ? 



16(S LA teste's poems. 

Or is't himsel', the glorious sun, 

That deigns to blink 

Sae warmin', cheerilie upon 

The slave o' drink ? 

Adieu ! John, man, a long adieu ! 
I'm up, I'm better, wiser, noo — 
0' siccan romps as this wi' you 

I've had my sairin'. 
Ye Power, wha sen's us licht anew, 

Forgie the errin'. 

Och ! gin the sot cud see himse? 
Gaen swaggerin' hame, bung-fu' o' ale. 
To hungry weans an' wife sae pale, 

Saul-sick, hairt-pain'd. 
Her hopes a' blighted — hame a hell — 

Like me, he'd mend ! 



WHAT OOR MUSEUM CONTAINS. 

Ladies an' gents, take notice, gin ye please, 
I'm no a lavyer, paid for scribblin' lees ; 
Nor yet a parson, wha " in holy rapture 
Aft ven's a rousin' whid, an' nails't wi' Scripture." 
Tm simply William La, an honest youth, 
Wha never wrote a sentence but the truth, 
As mony a ane will testify an' swear to, 
Kennin' sae weel the virtues I am heir to. 



WHAT OOR MUSEUM CONTAINS. 169 

Of all the articles I've mention'd under, 

There's nae a shadow o' a lee nor blunder ; 

But gin ye doot me, then 'twould be as well 

To come and see, and satisfy yersel'. 

We're sober, quiet folk, decent and douce, 

An' nae " connection wi' the ither house." 

We've got, my gentle reader, to begin. 

The pelican King Dauvit shot in Sin ; 

Wi' bill immensely lang, a bag as weel 

Micht hand, gin gey hard rax'd, a bow o' meal ; 

The flying-fish, a sailor bagg'd ae morn, 

Chased by the great sea-serpent round Cape Horn ; 

A pole-cat Franklin sent frae Behring's Straits, 

A pure white bear, an' several other pets ; 

A curious Chinese tea-pot, almost new. 

Presented by the Emperor Foo-Fung-Foo ; 

An' otter wi' its cub, an' no mistake. 

Which Calvin hook'd in dear Geneva's lake ; 

Corals an' coins galore, an antique jug, 

A weasel poppin' in Mahomet's rug ; 

An ostrich e^g, ye never saw its marrow. 

Which Livingstone presentit frae Sahara ; 

Seaweed, fox brushes, tiger's tooth an' tail. 

The auld Cathedral key liingin on a nail ; 

Australian claith, an' reptiles by the score, 

Auld locks, egg-shells, a mutch Queen Mary wore. 

A necklace of the rarest nuts, and which 

Was lang, lang worn by an Elgin witch. 

Lizards an' locusts, moths, an' mice, an mites, 

Fish scales, back-banes, black crabs, an' ammonites. 

A set o' bagpipes Noah played to please 

His ark-bound bairns, when rowin' ower the seas ; 



170 LA teste's poems. 

Canaries stuff'd, love-birds, snow buntins, wrens ; 

Ore, lead, an' quartz, an bright Cairngorum stanes. 

A bantam cock an' hen, a duck an' drake, 

A rat — poor brute — enveloped by a snake ; 

Wood-peckers, yellow hammers, flyin bats, 

Eed buntins, hedgehogs, twa o' Cromwell's hats, 

A guineapig, white futterit an' a ferret, 

The ring which Vulcan forged when Pluto marriet ; 

A fox's head, a doe's twa bloody hearts, 

A. gowden spike frae ane o' Cupid's darts. 

A gorgeous circular brooch, Prince Charlie wore 

That bloody day upon CuUoden Moor. 

The sword of Saul, found on Gilboah's tap. 

Presented by the august Emperor Nap. ; 

Some bunions cut frae honest Bunyon's toes, 

A wart that grew on mighty Hector's nose. 

A half-a-dizen hairs frae Peg's lang tail, 

Parnassus mou-bag an' the water pail ; 

A head o' that same fifty-headed snake 

The Hydra Hercules kill'd in Lerna's lake. 

A porpoise's jaw ; the jaws, too, o' a shark ! 

Australian beads : John Knox's Bible mark ; 

A bittern, a' the way frae Babylonia ; 

The lute Anacreon played in fair Ionia ; 

Twa antelope horns ; a zebra- coloured moose ; 

A mermaid's comb ; a splendid Solan goose ; 

A Eussian rabbit, which the Czar sent ; 

A bear's grease pot, wi' genuine bear's grease in't ; 

Eed Eiver fish, pure white, presented by 

The Indian Prince, Wizz-Wizz-Zubb-Dubb-de-Dy 

Sea-syrens ; serpents ; scrath, shell, crab-star fish, 

Eed crunyel, pluckers — ony fish ye wish ; 



WHAT OOR MUSEUM CONTAINS. 171 

A blood-horse in embryo — perfect, too ; 

Twa Leicester rams, a bull, an' kangaroo ; 

An auld clay pipe, discovered deep below, 

Some Eoman smoked twa thoosan' years ago ; 

A Scottish thistle, grown on Mount Parnassus ; 

A shoe that shod ane o' the three lost asses. 

We've bottled moonbeams, dew-drops, sighs, an' tears ; 

Eve's siller thimble, needle, bodkin, shears ; 

The horn in which dad Adam kept his snuff ; 

The spade that felled puir Abel — sad enough ; 

A diamond button frae Minerva's dress ; 

An auld boot, worn by noble Socrates. 

The pen which wrote good Caudle's Curtain Lectur ; 

The golden cup frae which the gods drank nectar ; 

A fossil star-fish ; a double-headed bull ; 

Jeems Fleemin's nicht-cap — Udny's stalwart fool ; 

A boa-constrictor's skin, that's muckle praised ; 

Cocoons o' silk in fair Elgina raised ; 

The siller tray that glittered at the feast, 

Lycurgus fuddled frae a flabby priest ; 

A cat an' squirrel by Columbus found. 

When he first trod on blessed Yankee ground ; 

A conger eel wi' some four rows of teeth, 

Hook'd in the Isla by the bard o' Keith ; 

The Witch o' Endore's fortune-tellin' glass ; 

Brave Samson's far-famed jawbone o' an ass ; 

A pack 0* cairts, wi' which, 'tween me an' you, 

Shem, Ham, an' Japhet play'd at three-cairt-loo ; 

A pair o' drab knee-breeks worn by King Darius ; 

A scruff which grew upon the horns o' Aries ; 

A something which the Queen o' Sheba gave 

To Solomon ae nicht to please the knave ; 



172 LA teste's poems. 

Isliboshetli's stanves, wham Dauvit still proteckit ; 

A sleeve o' Joseph's Stuart tartan jaicket ; 

The plaid by Marianne worn that hour 

King Herod blasted Judah's fairest flower ; 

An Irish shamrock rear'd in Capernaum ; 

The hazel rung o' father Abraham ; 

The cudgel Balak used against his cuddy, 

Until the beast provok'd jaw'd back the body ; 

The spinnin' wheel which spun puir Samson's locks ; 

Eeal petrified Jerusalem artichokes ; 

The pot in which red Esau boil'd his pottage ; 

The chair good Isaac snooz'd in in his dotage ; 

Three paper bonnets worn, for aught I know, 

By Shadrach, Mesheck, an' Abednego ; 

A frog in Asphaltite's waters caught ; 

Lot's wife's left lug, a circular lump o' saut. 

Achilles' tooth-pick — Jove's pipe-reddin' preen ; 

A broon Balmoral badger frae the Queen ; 

The blade that drank the blood o' Desdemona ; 

A friars skull frae ocean-lash'd lona ; 

The hat Cook found nail'd on the Northern Pole ; 

The coort-bell tongue the tinkler laddie stole ; 

A taings taen frae the horn o' Vulcan's forge ; 

The dragon's eye slain by the bold St George ; 

A bottle o' the cream o' human kindness ; 

A box o' saw will cure love's lengthen'd blindness ; 

Euddy faced Bacchus' cork-screw, jolly fellow ; 

Cursed Nana Sahib's tassell'd blue umbrella. 

An' mony thoosan' mair which I, puir body. 

Has little time thenoo to sit an' study. 

Ooor stock o' birds, believe me sirs, is grand, 

Of every plumage and from every land, 



WHAT OOR MUSEUM CONTAINS. 173 

Peacock an' hen to Macedonia brocht, 

By Philip's son when he in India focht ; 

A starlin' that could speak as weel as sing ; 

The dove which left the ark on freedom's wing ; 

A beautiful white pheasant, very rare — 

A present frae Eugenie, ever fair — 

The cuckoo, siskin, Gallilean swan ; 

Goat-sucker, black-cock, and ptarmigan ; 

A pretty parrot, sent us by the Pope ; 

A watery- wagtail frae the Cape Good Hope ; 

Guiana-skin-bird frae the Western Main ; 

A bullfinch frae her Majesty o' Spain ; 

Kilmenny's merlin, an' a snaw-white craw, 

A Persian magpie, sent us by the Shah ; 

A red sea-gull, a golden plover, which 

The Sultan sent, in plumage very rich ; 

A fine king-fisher which Prince Alfred shot, 

The Queen presented with a handsome note ; 

An Egypt grouse King Pharaoh shot, a quail 

Which Moses, cantie carlie, stuff' d himsel' ; 

Hawks, mavis, titmoose, golden-crested wren, 

An' hundreds mair, wha's names I dinna ken. 

But oor collection's best, I'm prood to tell, 

Is sure enough, oor " Auld Cock-Bird" himsel'. 

Ye'll no forget to honour's wi' a ca'. 

We're honest men, albeit we're " men o' straw." 

Oor wish is still to please, instruct, divert, 

In actin' thus, we act a noble pairt ; 

In pleasin' ithers, we are pleased again, 

An' that's the truest happiness o' men. 

Ye wha love Nature's warks, come doon an' see's, 

Ye'll a' be w^elcome, an' we charge nae fees. 



174 LA teste's poems. 



FEAE HEE NAINSEL' TO HEE NAINSEU. 

Gude Maister Caumell, sit ye doon, 

An' lissen for a wee, man ; 
She'll tell ye a' apoot ta toon, 

Ta toon tat's grievin' me, man. 
Her nainsel's hairt is sair an proke — 

Nae won'er — wul-a-wins, man ! — 
To sink tat a' her prither fowk 

Pe up knee- deep in sins, man. 

Och ! mony a nicht her nainsel' prays 

Till she crow hearse an couch, man ; 
She wad come east for twa-three tays 

An haul her oot ta slouch, man. 
Sin' e'er ta Teevil left ta toon — 

An' she's peen lang awa', man — 
Thro' virtue's path, in wisdom's shoon, 

She's no advanced ava, man. 

Oor pastors hae her flocks forgot ; 

We're gaen like wanderin' sheeps, man, 
Wisoot a shepherd, fauld, or cot, 

Nor hay, nor strae, nor neeps, man. 
She's worshippin' the golden calf, 

As Israel did in Sin, man ; 
She's fleein' apoot like parley chaff 

Afore the fanners' win, man. 



FRAE HER NAINSEL' TO HER NAINSEL'. 175 

Her youth pe rotten in disease, 

Her auld grey pows pe waur, man ; 
Frae morn ta niclit she'll bizz like bees 

Apoot ta public par, man. 
Ter's Hamish, Shon, an' Kab, an' Will, 

Wha used afore to pray, man ; 
But noo, it's aye ta ither gill 

O' Linky*s usquebae, man. 

Och ! gin her nainsel' had ta pooer, 

As weel's she has ta will, man. 
She'd pushion Linky's faumous prewer 

An' purn her pony still, man. 
Och, hone ! gin Jove was jist hersel*, 

She'd thunner for a year, man. 
To vinegar turn a' her ale, 

To marah suds her peer, man. 

It prings ta water in her eye 

Whan she sits doon to sink, man, 
Tat a' ta parley, corn, an' rye 

Pe factur'd into trink, man. 
She'll hae a meetin' soon, on Spey, 

She's printin' at ta Psalms, man, 
Ta pootcher's comin' pye an' pye 

To fleg her frae ta trams, man. 

She'll tear ta public hooses doon, 
She'll hang " Full to ta bung," man, 

On her door-sign, as hiech's ta loon 
Queen Esther's freen wad hung, man. 



176 ^ LA teste's POEMS. 

She's sittin' vrytin, sair hum-drum, 
For sad pe oor affairs, man— ^ 

Och ! that her naiusel' wad put come 
An' pring her hymns an' prayers, man. 

She hopes she'll pour her phial o' wrath 

On tat Ca-naa-an lot, man, 
Ta fowk o' Pishopmill, wha hath 

Eefused to grant's a plot, man, 
Whereon a Zion she'll micht pig. 

An' hang apeen a pell, man ; 
Mayhap she'll aiblins rue ta rig 

Whan she comes till hersel', man. 

She kens she'll spak a dainty spoke, 

As she has aften doon, man ; 
She'll warn a' ta wicked fowk 

An' purifee ta toon, man. 
Ten heest ye east frae Invernesh, 

An' bide a ook or twa, man ; 
She needna fear her vile poleesh — 

She's aye a freen in La, man. 



THE LAIKD'S EPITAPH. 177 

THE LAIRD'S EPITAPH. 

Beneath rests Elgin's patriarch — " The Laird/' 

A household Avord familiar far and near ; 
A sire of eighty springs had he been spared 

To see the dawning of another year. 
Lo ! what a length of time four-score appear, 

As the mind's eye peers through the hazy past ; 
To buffet with the world, so cold, severe, 

And bide life's storms through many a wintry 
blast — 
Snapp'd now the chain that bound the present to the 
past. 

In this sepulchral consecrated place. 

Amongst the many honour'd ones interr'd — 
There rests not one, who ran their destined race, 

More honour'd and esteem'd than he — " The Laird." 
Bold in the senate, where his voice was heard 

In aU relating to the public weal ; 
In counsel ever wise, and if he err'd 

'Twas on the side of charity and zeal : 
Generous alike to all — in friendship true as steel. 

A local dictionary was the head, 

The auld grey pow, now pillow'd on the clay ; 
Nor will we soon forget the lessons read. 

The good advice bestow'd from day to day. 
No more in night-cap don'd at evening grey. 

We meet his palsied step, as chimes the bell ; 
In years and honour ripe he pass'd away. 

And in death's slumber like a child he fell — 
Truly he served his day and generation well. 



178 LA teste's poems. 

AULD SCOTIA'S PLAID. 

There was a time whan Scotsmen true — 

An' brawny blades were they — 
Wore nocht but kilts an' bonnets blue, 

An' plaids o' hamespun grey. 
But fashions change like folk, I troo. 

In cloaks an' Eaglans claed ; 
'Tis rare we see a Scotsman noo 
Eow'd in an auld grey plaid — 

The cosy plaid, the bonny plaid. 

That haps my lass an' me ; 
I wadna gie auld Scotia's plaid 
For a' the cloaks I see. 

Nocht sets the brawny Scot sae weel — 

Sae nobly prood his mien — 
Whan pawky oot at e'en he'll steal, 

An' ower the moonlit green, 
To meet his lassie true an' leal, 

Beneath the hawthorn shade. 
An' angel's bliss their fond hearts feel, 

Eow'd in the auld grey plaid — 

The cosy plaid, the bonny plaid, &c. 

Britannia's Queen, wham Heaven bless. 

An' lang the sceptre wiel', 
A nation lo'es her nane the less 

She birls a spinnin' wheel. 
Eugenie's sel', wi' angel face, 

Ne'er thinks she's half arrayed 
Until she dons her tartan dress, ^ 

An' Scotia's auld grey plaid — 

The cosy plaid, the bonny plaid, &e. 



AULD SCOTIA'S PLAID. 179 

The plaid, the plaid, in praises lood, 

Ye bards o' Scotia sing ; 
An' wha shall dare to ca't a rude, 

A gaudy, useless thing ? 
Whan oor brave sires, the noble, good. 

For freedom focht an' bled, 
They gloried in their gory shrood — 

Auld Scotia's blood-dyed plaid — 

The cosy plaid, the bonny plaid, &c. 

The sage divine to blood-hounds given, 

In Claver'se gory day, 
Frae mountain peak to mountain driven, 

An* huntit like a rae ; 
In some rude cavern, rocky, riven, 

Wi' Bible-pillow'd head. 
He sweetly slept, an' dream'd o' heaven, 

Eow'd in his auld grey plaid — 

The cosy plaid, the bonny plaid, &c. 

Scots, be ye rich or be ye poor, 

Whaure'er through life ye steer. 
It is yer passport safe an' sure. 
The chequered plaid sae dear. 
Frae pole to pole though ye sud scoor 

Ower a' the warl braid, 
Gin health an' wealth ye wad secure, 
Stick to the auld grey plaid — 

The cosy plaid, the bonny plaid. 

That haps my lass an' me ; 
I wadna gie auld Scotia's plaid 
For a' the cloaks I see. 

m2 



180 LA teste's poems. 

WILLIE'S WOOIN'. 

Willie Waiich gaed out to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ; 
Like himsel', a wee thing fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 
Fient a snuff did Willie care — 
Love and drink's a fearless pair — 
An' Maria Plump was fat an' fair. 
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 

Willie coax'd the lassie out, 
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't ; 
Out she gaed, without a doot. 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't : 

Took the side neist Willie's heart 

(Maria Plump was fou o' airt) — 

Well she kent the warmest pairt, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 

Awa' they dander'd doon the toon. 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't, 
Willie, sentimental loon. 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 
Began his love-sick rigmarole : 
Love, he swore, had burn't his soul- 
Sic a heat he couldna thole, 
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't, 

Maria Plump, the limmer ! leuch. 
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't ; 

" Hand yer jaw, ye've said enough !' 
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 



WILLIE'S WOOIN'. 181 

Will, took ae kiss, and maybe mair — 
Sae wad ye, gin ye'd been there, 
Maria Plump's a jewel, rare, 
Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 

Will, pat Maria hame again, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't — 
Thocht the lassie a' his ain. 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't ; 
But, lack-a-day, as love's red lip 
Its cup o' bliss sae rich wad sip, 
'Tis dashed in madness frae oor grip, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 

It happen'd sae to Willie Wauch, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't ; 
Will, had a rival — maybe twa. 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 
Whan Maria took him ben the house, 
Wha's sittin' wi' her dad sae crouse 
But rival Jock, as sleek's a mouse, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 

Jock got up an' swore at Will., 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't ; — 
" Whew !" quo Willie, " stan' a gill," 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 
Jock in ragin' fury stamp'd. 
Will, push'd till his mouth-piece cramp't, 
Kumpty-dumpty, rumpty-dump'd. 

Ha, ha, 'the wooin' o't. 



182 LA teste's poems. 

Jock drew close to gie'm a clout, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't ; 
Will, got up an' backit out, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't, 
Backin' out's nae easy job, 
Doun he splatter'd in a tub — 
What was this but grumphy*s grub. 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 

Maria, lovely lassie, leuch, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't ; 
Jock gaw-haw'd an' hiccup'd '* Hooch !" 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 
Greasy Willie cut his stick, 
Bang'd his nose agin a brick ; 
He couldna see — 'twas dark as mirk. 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 

Bowfy gat him wast the toon, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 
Seekin' Batchen Street, puir loon. 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't ; 
Will, swears he'll fecht Jock Fiddle yet. 
An* wed the quean in spite o' fate — 
Willie Wauch was never bet, 

Ha, ha, the wooin' o't. 



THE COACH-BIGGERS' RANT. 183 



THE COACH-BIGGERS' RANT. 

Bung doon yer tools, yer squares an' rules, 

Like men o' spunk an' a' that, 
Wha tak' or gi'e a friendly spree, 
And no get drunk for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 

We've siller croons, for a' that — 
Coach-bigger blades, tho' black as spad6s, 
We're jolly loous, for a' that. 

Come, sonsie Bell, wi' reamin' ale, 
Yer kebbuck, cakes, an' a' that ; 
Tho' whyles ye bring a quart on King, 
We're no just rakes, for a' that ! 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

I wat ye'U tick's for a' that ; 
Ye ken yersel', my bonny Bell, 
We're honest bricks, for a' that. 

Tho' ghosts will hunt, to nail oor blunt, 

An' shave's an' crave's, an' a' that ; 
We'll lat them ken we're honest men, 
An' no sic knaves as a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

An' ten times mair than a' that — 
Ye sneakin' crew, tho' we get fou, 
Ye'll hae ver share, for a that. 



184 LA teste's poems. 

Fill up yer caups, my hearty chaps, 

We'll aye get ale, for a' that ; 
Here's to the trade that wins oor bread, 
An' boils the kail, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 

The iron an' wud, for a' that — 
The axe an' saw, an' bellows blaw. 
The hammer's thud, for a' that. 

Stripp'd to the sark, the smiddy's wark, 

Wi' soot, an' stour, an' a that, 
Mak's drouthy moos, an' sweaty broos — 
The ale's the cure, for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

John Drouth may flyte, an' a' that. 
An' treat wi' scorn John Barleycorn- 
We'll hae oor skyte, for a' that. 

Teetotal tramps, the scum o' scamps. 
May vent their spleen, an' a that — 
An' tak' their whak behint yer back. 
But we'll drink clean, for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

The paint, the spells, an' a' that, 
Fill up yer bowls, my jovial souls, 
Our noble sel's, for a' that. 

Here's to oor weans, oor Jocks an' Janes, 
Oor ain sweet wives, an' a' that ; 

Be prood, ye jades, ye hae sic blades, 
To bless yer lives wi' a' that. 



THE COACM-BIGGERS' RANT, 185 

Wi' a' that, an' a' that, 

Fresh crinoline, an' a' that, 

An' bonnets new, wi' ribbons blue, 
I wat ye'll shine, wi' a' that. 

An here's a health to them wha's wealth. 

Supports the trade, an' a' that ; 
May springs aye brak, an' wheels rin wrack, 
An' Corks be paid Tor a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Lat banes be hale, for a' that ; 
The mair we men', the mair we'll spen' 
On Tibbie's ale, an a' that. 

Ye noble lords, whase purse affords 

A cosy brougham, an' a' that, 

Eemember then, frae toilin' men 

Yer comforts come, an' a that. 

For a' that, an' a' that. 

Ye dainty fair, an' a' that — 
'Neath sooty sarks, divinely lurks 
Love, pure an' rare, for a' that. 

The Queen, my men, lang may she reign, 

But I maun sing for a' that — 
The workin' man, deny wha can. 
Is Britain's King, for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 

Her bulwark, fence, an a' that — 

Then grudge him not his pewter pot, 

He's her best Prince, for a' that ! 



186 LA teste's poems. 



JEAN SHALL BE MY DEAEIE. 

Cauld blaws bluff Boreas frae the Pole, 
An' dark December's sair to thole — 
A sadness creeps across my soul, 

That makes the soul sae weary. 
If aught on earth can care beguile — 
Can soothe a sair or saften toil — 
It surely is the lassie's smile 

Heaven sent ye for yer dearie. 

I wadna gi'e my bloomin' Jean, 
Wi' crimson lips and hazel een, 
For earth's most fair, gem-spangled queen- 

Sae soulless and sae eerie. 
There is a music in her voice 
Wakes feelings fond an' fancies choice ; 
Enraptured, ravin*, I rejoice 

To think that Jean's my dearie. 

Jean is my flower, my fair snow-drop, 
Pure as the snaw on Morven's top — 
That fills my soul wi' heaven and hope — 

Sae beamin', bright, an' cheery. 
Wi' wavy locks o' glossy jet, 
Twined in a golden-beaded net — 
I've vowed at Yule wi' her to mate. 

An' Jean shall be my dearie. 



JEAN SHALL BE MY DEARIE. 187 

The crescent moon gleams o'er the lea — 

A lowin' heart awaits for thee — 

Then meet me whaur the auld beech tree 

Soughs in the win' sae eerie. 
Ye needna fear the even's cauld, 
Nor Boreas blast, sae bleak an' bauld — 
My tartan plaid I'll round thee fauld, 

An' thou shalt be my dearie. 

A lovin' heart ne'er dreamed o' fear — 
What tho' the nicht be lang an' drear ; 
Tho' 'twere as lang's a hunner year, 

I wat I'd never weary. 
Come in thy beauty, love, an' faith, 
My cosy plaid will warm us baith ; 
'Neath moon an stars I'll swear an aith — 

Thoul't be alone my dearie. 

'Tis love alone gives life its bliss — 
The fond caress, the tender kiss ; — 
Than wha wad be a batch. — whan this 

Mak's life sae light and cheery. 
! dreary, dark the Polar waste, 
An' cauld the ice on Alpine crest — 
But caulder still the frigid breast 

That never loved a dearie. 



188 LA teste's poems. 



JEMIMA EOSEBUD'S SONG. 

Cheer, girls, cheer, the bees will soon be bumming, 
Hurrah ! for orange blossoms, and garlands fresh and 
gay; 
Cheer, girls, cheer, the happy day is coming. 

And Jemima will be married in the sunny month of 
May. 

Last night he came and asked me from my dear old 
uncle Simple, 
I, blushing, gave consent to enter pai'tnership ; 
His moustache is black as ink, and in each cheek a 
dimple — 
O 1 he's such a dashing dandy, and his name is 
Mister Snip. 

Cheer, girls, cheer, no more of idle pining — 

Up, up and be active girls, and do the best you can ; 

Cheer, girls, cheer, on the breast of love reclining — 
'TwiU be a paradise to live with dainty, dandy Dan. 

He's a lawyer by profession, and a truly splendid poet 
He writes such charming verses — ! how tranquilly 
they flow ; 
He says I am so beautiful — he thinks I didn'tJ{:now it ; 
But the mirror on the mantelpiece inform'd me long 
ago. 



JEMIMA rosebud's SONG. 189 

Cheer, girls, cheer, no more of vain despairing ; 

What d'ye think he bought me ? — such a gorgeous 
crinoline ! 
Cheer, girls, cheer, when I go out an' airing, 

I promised him I'd wear it — won't Jemima cast a 
shine ? 

To enter matrimony, girls, 'tis surely woman's duty, 
And was not woman made, too, to cheer the life of 
man; 
The older that we grow, too, we'll grow the less in 
beauty, 
Then strike the iron while 'tis hot — hurrah for 
twenty-one. 

Cheer, girls, cheer, for the lover's happy wooing, 
The coaxing and the cuddling, and the kiss from 
love's red lip ; 
Cheer, girls, cheer, go do as I am doing. 

For the beautiful Jemima Eose will soon be Missus 
Snip. 



190 LA teste's poems. 



SONG— MY ANNIE, O! 

Whaur Lossie glides through sauchie glades 

Aboon the Mill o' Scroggy, ! 
Young Love, delighted, chastely treads 

The daisied banks sae vogie, ! 
For there I meet, whan gloamin' fades — 

Be't cauld, be't mirk, or rainy, ! 
The fairest o' Elgina's maids. 

My bonny blue-e'ed Annie, ! 

There's nae a lady up or doon 

Can match her on the caus'ay, ! 
There's nae a lad in a' the toon 

Can boast o' sic a lassie, ! 
Her form sae straucht, her cheek sae roon. 

An' auburn ringlets many, O ! 
A broo o' alabaster croon. 

My bonny blue-e'ed Annie, ! 

Her voice is Philomel's at night. 

Or laverock caroU'n early, ! 
She steps it like an angel sprite ; 

I lo'e the lassie dearly, O ! 
Gie petted dame to pampered knight — 

Her beauty's but the penny, ! 
But gie me. Heaven, my soul's delight. 

My bonny blue-e'ed Annie, O ! 



ALLITERATIVE ACROSTIC. 191 

ALLITERATIVE ACROSTIC. 

Cherry -cheeked Clara Clover's Curious Cabinet Collection contains : — 

P ens, pins, pink paper, parasols, prints, pills. 

F ine flounces, feathers, flowers, flaps, fans, fleeces, 

A Ibums, arts, acids, alabaster asses ; [frills ; 

L ove-letters, laces, light Lucerne lasses ; 

C oins, corals, cambric 'kerchiefs, cheveux-Q,oi\s ; 

des, orders, odours, ocres, olives, oils ; 

N utmegs, nymphs, naiads, neck-ties, nappery new ; 

E thereal essence, elixirs enou' ; 

R ed rubies, rhymes, rare ribbons, roses, rue. 

M ost medicines, marks, myrrh, mulberries, mints ; 
E namell'd eaters, emeralds, Elgin flints ; [Ranter ;" 
R immel's rubbish, rouge, rhapsodies, " Rob the 
C curt-curls, combs, cameos, CaUum Cona's chanter ; 
H ats, hymns, hartshorn, " House Hints," " Home's 
A qua, acorns, acrostics, adamants ; [Happy Haunts ;" 
N eedles, nippers, nosegays, nuts. Napoleon snaps ; 
T bread, thimbles, trouseau, timbrels, tapers, traps. 

R ose-water, reels, rum, relics, river-falls 

O f old Ohio, oilskins, overalls ; 

T in tankard, " TroUope's Treatise," toothpicks, teas ; 

H eaven's Hero, hyacinths, hog's lard, heart's-ease ; 

E yes, ear-rings, ell-wand, Edward's epaulettes ; 

S ilk stockings, sugars, sandals, satin nets. 



192 LA teste's poems. 



WIDDY MACHEOY. 



Wad ye wed a gran' butcher, ! Widdy, my darlin' ? 
I'm young an' I'm fair, an' I'm aye growin' fatter ; 
Tho' a wee tlioclitie banld, troth, it's no that I'm snarlin', 
An' tis seldom indeed I gang aff on the batter. 

Whisper low in my ear. 

While there's naebody near. 
But dinna say '' No," or my health ye'll destroy. 

I'm in love to the lugs 

Wi' yer bonny quart jugs, 
Yer rooms an' yer rugs, darlin' Widdy Machroy. 

Ye grane but an' ben, an' ye sigh whan yer sittin' — 
Odds, fish ! Widdy darlin', what makes ye sae dowie ? 

Ye sigh whan yer sewin*, an' ye greet whan yer knittin'. 
An' ye'U no taste a drap oot yer ain fusky bowie. 
Och, hon ! Widdy, dear, 
Is there naething can cheer ? 

Wad ye no like a smack frae the lips o' a boy ?. 
Whan I muse on yer charms, 
Troth my heart fondly warms — 

Tak' me into yer arms, darlin' Widdy Machroy. 

My heart's sair to see ye aye sighin' in sadness. 
For I've got ^ heart that can feel for anither ; 
An' wha'll bring ye back to the sunshine o' gladness ? 
Sure enough it's mysel', gin we buckle thegither. 
Wipe awa, then, yer tears, 
Sure, an' smother yer fears — 



WIDDY MACHROY. 1 93 

The neist time ye weep 'twill be tear-draps o' joy. 

Here's my lian' an' my hairt, 

An' we'll never mair pairt — 
Cheer up an' look smairt, darlin' Widdy Machroy. 

Let the past dee in darkness — the future be sunny, 

A happier pair never breathed in creation ; 
I've the beef — ye've the beer, an' a muggin' o' money — 
Hurrah ! Widdy, darlin', never dream o' starvation. 

In the " Cushion an' Croon," 

Troth, we'll spen' the blest moon, 
An' ye'U live yet to diddle a bit brat o' a boy. 

I'll sit an' I'll sing, 

An' I'll tit at the string — 
Faith, as cantie's a king, darlin' Widdy Machroy. 

Yer laughin', ye limmer — gae awa' wi' yer capers — 

D'ye think, Widdy dear, is yer sweetheart a-jokin' ? 
Jist ca' me the maister at aince, an' by japers 

I'll dance on the croon o' my head till I'm chokin' ? 

Ked ripe is yer mou. 

An' I ken yer heart's true — 
Jist say but the word, och ! an' kill me wi' joy. 

Gin we e'er come to war — 

For the best hae a jar — 
Lock me into the bar, darlin' Widdy Machroy. 



N 



194 LA teste's poems. 



SWEET COOKEY ST CLAEK 

Get along wid yer barmaids, slop-pailers, and bmshers, 

Yer fammy-dee-shambrays, get along wid 'em — do ; 
Och ! give me the gal as can frizzle the rashers 

Of an old Irish grunter wid a tayty or two. 
She's the gal I adores, to be sure, when I'm starving 

She looks like a duchess, so fat and so fair ; 
Och ! Vanus ne'er look'd half so purty when carvin' 

As thou in thy beauty, sweet Cookey St Clare. 

In the land of Elayshium, over the water, 

As proud and as sleek as a paycock I grew, 
A dhramin' of nothin' but broth, beef, an' buttei^, 

Chops, coUops and tripe^ and the ould Irish stew. 
I blow'd like a whale atin' mullogyetawney. 

Devil'd turkey, mock-turtle, and currie and hare. 
Hotch-potch, cock-a-leekie, the grand staple for 
Sawney — 

Oh, lor ! how I miss ye, sweet Cooky St Clare. 

Sweet Cookey, mavourneen, oh ! why did ye lave me ? 

I'm as toom as a trumpet — and hungry I pine, 
A blow from a bulrush, by japers, would stave me — 

I was once eighteen stone, now I weigh only nine. 
I was mightily plazed the first evenin' I met ye ; 

Bad luck to the day ye sailed south for Drumdair, 
Come back, darlint Cookey, and I'll never forget ye. 

Not here nor hereafter, sweet Cookey St Clare. 



SWEET COOKEY ST CLARE. 195 

I'm lonely, love-lorn, a change has come o'er me, 

Here I sits like a mongrel, moon- stricken, morose, 
Wid a cupful o' wash and a skatten before me. 

My fat broth and beef are but brochan and brose, 
Instead of my brown smokin' jiggot of mutton, 

I picks a pig's trotter — oh ! lor, how I stare ; 
My pants could hold two, that of late would not 
button, 

I'm a-goin' in consumption, sweet Cookey St Clare. 



Sweet Cookey, mavourneen, for once have a pity, 

Should I famish to death, don't you think you would 
cry? 
To save sad reflections come back to the city 

And fry us, sweet Cookey, another fresh fry. 
There's a cosy bit cabin I ken o' awaitin', 

Sure jist the wee biggin' for a true-lovin' pair. 
And faix, wid yerself, and wi' drinking and atin' 

I might live till I die, (Jarlint Cookey St Clare. 



n2 



LA TESTE'S EAELT HISTOEY. 



BY CtRANNY M'DOODLE. 

Nae doot some o' oor over-rigid, sanctimonious gentry 
•will be apt to mak' the remark that Granny M'Doodle 
micht hae been better employed in readin' a chapter o' 
Job, or hummin' ower a Psalm o' Dauvit, or.gien the 
pnir Pilgrim a lift oot o* the Slouch o' Despond, than 
takin' in han' sic a responsible bit o' business as the 
writin* o' some half-hunner pages o' biography, whilk 
very likely, whan written, naebody will care a farthin-, 
aboot. Dinna be naewauys indignant wi' me, my gude 
friends, although it mak'sna muckle odds to Granny 
futher ye be or no. I'm an auld body, that's true, in 
my auchty-an-fourth autumn ; but I can hand the pen 
yet, an' write Willie's early life I will, in spite o' ye a'. 
An' wha has a better richt, I wad like to ken, or wha 
cud accomplish the task better than his ain granmither, 
that kent him sin' he was born, an' a' his forbears afore . 
him ? Indeed, sirs, to tell ye the truth, it's mony a 
year sin' I commenced a piece o' wark wi' sic real 
pleasure as this samin' biography — pleased an' prood 
baith, nae only in bein' the honoured instrument 
seleckit by William himsel' for this special purpose, 
but in wanderin' back through the mist o' some forty 



198 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

years, my auld hairt throbs delighted, an' nae wonner, 
as scene aifter scene o' my life's simmer, panoramic-like, 
pass before my mind's e'e, an' forms an' familiar faces 
that hae lang syne been laid i' the mools, reappear in 
a* the freshness o' youth an' beauty. But I'm no gaen 
to be pathetic, gude folk, in the meantime, although a 
body canna weel help a drap saut water gatherin' i' 
the neuk o' their e'e whan pleasant thochts o' bygane 
days intrude upo' the memory. Sae I'se e'en dicht my 
specks, an' dip " stumpie i' the ink," an' begin at the 
beginnin', in my ain hamel wauy, my plain " oon- 
varnished tale." 

It happened in the year saxteen hunner an' forty 
or thereaboot, I'm no jist cronologically sure, that a 
certain wonderful Italian swordsman, a sort o' a war- 
lock, paraded daily the streets o' Lunnon, challengin' 
to single combat ony ane wha had a mind for a wame- 
fu' o' cauld steel, whilk mony a braw Cockney got, for 
nae man cud fecht wi' the Italian wizard an' escape 
haein a hole ca'd through his abdominal region. 
Hunners o' the bravest o' the Cockneys had fa'in' 
aneath the blade o' this invincible champion, in league 
nae doot wi' auld sooty, an' he " croppit the caus'ay," 
for his match cudna be fun' frae the ae en' o' the toon 
to the ither. The King, puir man, grew unco sair 
perplext, an' the Queen, wi' the ladies o' the coort, 
grat day an' nicht for their lost lovers, for the best an' 
bravest o' the knichts o' chivalry had been hewn doon 
like dokins by this seemingly invulnerable wielder o' 
the sword. Ae mornin', preceded as usual by a 
drummer, he had the audacity to gar the loon dird it 
at the very Palace yett. Whereupon her Majesty in a • 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 199 

terrificatioii cried to the knichts present, " And is there 
nane in a' oor realms for love o' king an' country, for 
love 0' lady fair, or e'en for love o' me, wad draw his 
sword against this stranger knicht o' Italy ?" An auld 
carlie o' a lord shook his grey pow, an' answered in 
this wise the dread-dreein' dochter o' Henry o' Na- 
varre — " Indeed, there is nane, yer Majesty, except a 
gallant Scot, the brave an' brawny Donald Og o' 
Monaltrie." '* Let him be summoned to oor presence 
immediately," cried tlie King, an' Domhnull Og na 
H-Alba, laird o' Monaltrie, the first swordsman in the 
Braes o' Mar, appeared kilted an' belted in the pre- 
sence o' the King an' Queen, an' a the cavaliers o' the 
coort. " Wilt thou stop the din o' that hateful drum," 
asked the King o' Donald, " Hoot, ay," answered the 
Celt gaily, an' steppin up to the loon thunnerin' at the 
drum's head, ca'd his claymore in at the ae en' an' oot 
at the ither. " There noo," said Donald, " lick awa' at 
it, laddie, till ye tire." " An' wha are ye that has 
daured to offer sic an insult to the champion o' Italy, 
an' slayer by hunners o' yer base-born Britons ?" roared 
the maddened Achilles. " Sir, stranger," quo the Celt, 
"I'm Donald Farquharson o' Monaltrie an' Tilly- 
garmont, chief o' the Clan Fhearchair, an' ready an' 
willin to meet thee in such wise, an' when an' whaur 
it listeth thee." 

Niest mornin', Lunnon was a' in a hubbub. The 
King, the Queen, an' the hale coort were early on their 
pins to witness the conflick atweeu the dauntless Scot 
an' the muckle-dreaded wizard o' Italy. Lang an' sair 
did the battle last— mony a thrust an' parry did the 
combatants mak' ; but the Hielan claymore did its 



200 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

wark at last. The Diel didna keep faith wi' the puir 
wizard whan sairest nott, an' Donald's steel blade 
drank deeply his rich Italian bluid. A young French- 
man, named Tastard, wha had been an e'e witness o' 
the fecht, was sae enamoured, so to speak, wi' Donald 
Og's prowess, agility, an' manly bearin' i' the battle, 
that he made application to Monaltrie to be admitted 
into his service, in ony capacity whatever, provided he 
cud be always aboot his person, an' that he wad sair 
him faithfully an' weel in all future time coming, 
whether in peace or war. The laird bein' weel pleased 
wi' the young man's address, did tak' him into his 
service ; an' whan the days o' feastin' an' tournament 
were ended in the great city, Donald Og departed for 
the Braes o' Mar, whaur Tastard, the young French- 
man, was duly installed in office as Major Domo in 
the house o' Monaltrie. Here, in the coorse o' time, 
he took unto himself a wife, a maiden o' Mar, and be - 
came the progenitor o' the Tester family, that hae had 
their domicile in Ballater for the last twa hunder year. 
And Tastard, the son o' Galia, begat a son, and he ca'd 
the loon Andrew, in a' probability aifter the patron 
saint o' his adoptit country ; and Andrew begat Alex- 
ander, a noted warrior o' the Clan Fearchair ; and 
Alexander begat Simon the Tall; and Simon begat 
Peter, the poet an' famous scholar, generally ca'd 
" Peter the Dominie ;" and Peter begat Archibald, 
wha was mair fond o' the rifle than the rudiments ; 
and Archibald begat James the Strong; and James 
the Strong begat four sons — John, William, James, 
and Alexander. The last was reckoned the bonniest 
lad on Deeside, and was piper an' poet to the prood 



AUTOBIOGKAPUY. 201 

lady 0' Invercauld ; but he died in the prime o' his 
youth, deeply regretted, an' by nane mair sae than the 
haughty dame already mentioned, for he was the only 
man on the estate to whom she deigned to open her 
lips. Puir woman, she was humble aneuch afore she 
left the warl. And James the Mason, a hale, hearty 
auld carl to this day, an' as gude a poet as the best o' 
ye, took unto himself Jean Broon to wife, mony a year 
an' day housekeeper at the Castle o' Abergeldie, an' as 
cantie an auld wife yet as ye'U get in ony parish 
throughout Scotland. 

And James the Mason begat a son, wha was bap- 
teezed in the Kirk o' Crathie, by the Keverend Maister 
Burgess, minister o' the parish ; an' the name whilk 
his worship gave the laddie at the font was William 
Hay Leith Tester, better kent noo-a-days by the cog- 
nomen o' "La Teste." And this event happened in 
the year o' grace auchteen hundred and twenty-nine — 
the ever-memorable year o' the flood — on the aucht-an' 
-twentieth day o' February, at four of the clock, post 
meridian. There noo, that's minute aneuch, surely. An' 
the name c the auld clay biggin' in which the laddie 
was born was, an' is yet, Bel-na-croft ; that had been 
formerly tenanted by a noted witch, weel kent through- 
out the kintra-side as Bell o' the Craft, the wife wi' 
the second sicht. Born in the wilds o' Braemar, amon' 
rank heather, an' in sic a cot, o'ershadowed by the 
froonin' an " dark Lochnagar," nae wonner though the 
laddie, as he grew up to man's estate, imbibed such a 
love for the sublime in nature to which he gave full 
vent in the lyrics of his younger an' happier days ; 
but oonfortunately, and which he now regrets himsel', 



202 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

tliey have all long ago been committed to the flames. 
Little did the auld limmer o' a witch jaloose, as she 
played her cantrips on the folk's kye i' the moonlicht 
that a bard sud be born in her hovel o' evil com- 
munion, or that a Queen sud mak' it ane o' her 
favourite resorts. Time, ye see, sirs, works wonders, 
an' wonders never cease ; an' yet there is naething 
new under the sun, if we maun believe Solomon, an' 
he was a wise chiel, but a great fool for himsel' amon 
the queans. 

And it sae happened that James the Mason be- 
hooved to flit frae Belnacraft, when his son was but 
a few months auld, having made an engagement wi' 
Maister Gordon, laird o' Kincardine O'lSTeil, to mak' 
some masonic improvements aboot his lodge ; but the 
bairn bein' a dowie, wishy-washy kind o' a creatur', he 
left him and his mither in the custody o' gran'father 
in Ballater, thinkin' nae doot it wad be as weel to let 
the wean dee an' be buried amon' his ain folk, rather 
than amon' strangers, whilk, in my opinion, was a 
genuine proof o' his paternal solicitude. An' the 
month o' August cam', an' wi' August cam' the rush o' 
many waters ; doon tumbled Dee frae the Linn, in 
volume aifter volume, as it had never tumbled afore, 
at ony rate nae sin' the memorable year in whilk Noah 
set sail for the tap o' Arrarat, and that's nae yesterday. 
For days and nichts it had poored doon in incessant 
torrents, the water rose to a level wi' the bulwarks o' 
the brig, huge pines uprooted by the force o' the cur- 
rent, cam' rowin' doon, drivin' a'thing afore them, hale 
hay-ricks took French leave, sheep were drooned by the 
thoosan' an' mony a fat stirk floatit to the sea to be 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 203 

pickled. The s(?ene was gran' nae doot, but fearfu' ; 
Ballater was in a soom frae Craig-an-darrach on the 
ae side to the Pannanich braes on the ither. Dark an' 
dismal set the sun on the nicht o' the third, an' still 
the heavens poored doon its watery elements in pail- 
fuls, sappin' to the foondation mony an auld biggin' 
that had stood the ravages o' time for centuries. It 
was a sair nicht to Jean Broon wi' her dwinin' wean, 
Willie, wi' some three feet o' water i' the hoose, an' 
the dread o' the wa's gien wauy, for gran'father's 
biggin', though cosy, was by nae means extraordinar' 
substantial. But an' ben he wade, puir man, knee- 
deep, whyles comfortin' his good-dochter, sad eneuch 
wi' the laddie in her lap, whyles earnestly prayin' for 
daylicht or an abatement o' the flood, whilk threatened 
the hale village wi' utter destruction. 

It's a lang nicht that brings nae mornin' ; day 
dawned at last upon the haK drooned folk o' Ballater, 
and wi' the dawn awa' went, wi' a roar like thunner, 
the massive masonry o' the brig, whilk gard mony a 
hairt loup in terror, for the folk thocht, an' nae withoot 
reason, their last hoor was come. The crash o' the 
stanes as they rumbled into the depths o' the boilin' 
flood, put new life i' the laddie, for he maist jumpit oot 
o' his mither's lap wi' the fricht ; an' it's a queer thing, 
even unto this day, Willie has aye a horror in gaen 
through aneath a brig, for an idea haunts him that it 
will fa' an smore him. Daylicht also brocht the richt 
man to the rescue. His father, James the Mason, solici- 
tous aboot the fate o' his wife an' wean, trampit a' that 
dismal nicht frae the lodge o' Kincardine, wadin' to 
the oxters in water, a feat whilk nae man wad hae 



204 AXJTOBIOGKAPHY. 

attempit but himsel' ; but he was swak, stout, an' tall, 
an' for strength of muscle unmatched on Deeside. Od 
it's a wonner, Willie's sic a wee body ! Catchin' some 
rin-awa' salmon coble, apparently on a voyage o' dis- 
covery to the Muir o' Dinnet, in this ricketty craft he 
managed to reach gran'father's in the nick o' time, and 
had the inexpressible happiness o' savin' the precious 
lives maist dear to his hairt, ere the auld tenement 
tumbled in a rickle o' ruins, whilk assuredly wad hae 
terminated the existence o' the subject o' this memoir, 
an' some mair besides him. As soon as the water had 
subsided an' made the turnpike passable to Aboyne, 
James the Mason, as he was aye familiarly ca'd, returned 
to Kincardine, takin' Jean an' the laddie wi' him, whaur 
they were comfortably located near himsel' in a cot- 
tage, ca'd the Craigton o' Kincardine, some twa miles 
distant frae the village.. 

Here Willie, the wean, grew fat an' weel, an' as wild 
as a young wolf In fact, it took a' his mither's time 
to keep him frae fire an' water, for he was eternally at 
some mischief or anither — -climbin' trees, tumblin' ower 
crags, an' very frequently up to the oxters in the 
midden — gin there was a puddle i' the path, Willie 
be't to hae a splash in't. It was at the Cragton, in 
his fourth year, whaur he met wi' the accident to his 
upper lip, whilk maist proved fatal to the wild laddie. 
His mither's back bein' aboot, it behooved the young 
scamp to lay his ban's upon a certain Cheena cup, wi' 
whilk he absconded, and in his hurry, slipped an' fell. 
The cup breakin', entered the lip an' cut it clean 
through, severin' an artery at the sametime ; an' ere a 
doctor cud be procured, he had amaist bled his last. • 



AUTOBIOGRArHY. 205 

From the Craigton, James the Mason removed wi' 
his family to the village of Kincardine O'lSTeil, whaur 
Willie first commenced the ABC o' his ediication, 
under the dropthy an' sair-dreaded Dominie Grassy. 
Aye, he was a hard maister Dominie Grassy, an' in his 
foil fits merciless alike to big an' little. 

Weel does Willie mind on the tards wi' the ten tails 
that had mony a time played whack on the ae loof an' 
syne on the ither ; it was a lang hard tag the Dominie 
brunt at the ends, an' strong was the arm that wielded 
it, and though ilka stroke fell heavy an' hard to thole, 
Willie, wi' the courage o' a lion, minded them not, for 
he was too bold to wince, an' too prood to weep. Many 
a time had he to stan' sentry at the door-cheek wi' the 
broom in his oxter — a punishment prevalent in thae 
days, an' ilka youngster had the privilege o' spittin' 
upon ye as they passed oot at the hoor o' skule-closin', 
but wae to the loon that daured to spit in Willie's 
physiognomy, he was a " marked man," an' sure to 
suffer, for Will, as a warrior was aye the first in the 
foray an' the last to gie in. 

Havin' maistered the first rudiments, he was ad- 
vanced a stage to the Mither's Categis, whilk he cud 
screed aff in an incredible short time, frae the Chief 
En' o' Man to the Grace aifter Meat. Frae the Cate- 
gis he was promoted to the Proverbs class, the standard 
skule-beuk o' that day an' generation, and frae the 
Proverbs to the Auld an' New Testaments, but the 
psalms o' Dauvit, an' especially the paraphrases, were 
his chief delight, whilk, strange to say, he had almost 
by heart, for his memory was so retentive in all that 
was poetical, havin' read it aince or twice he never 



206 • AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

forgot it. Sae ye see, sirs, ere he had weel reached his 
seventh year, he was considered aboot as gude a scholar 
as there was in the skule. He wasna only a gude 
scholar, but a gude, kind, generous-hearted boy, an' the 
bonniest laddie in the parish to boot, wi' an iron con- 
stitution that naething cud effect. In winter's blasts 
an' nippin' frosts, Willie, barefooted an' bare-leggit, 
tumbled amang wreaths o' snaw, or slid on the ice, the 
merriest o' the merry. Possessed wi' a spirit of darin' 
far beyond his years, whilk brocht muckle trouble on 
himsel' an' his folk, the rogue cud never rest in 
peace unless engaged in some protick or achieve- 
ment, whilk bigger men wad hae feared to face. For 
instance, such as attemptin' to wade Dee when partially 
in a spate, he had reached mid-channel in the ford, an' 
turnin' roon to gie his companions on the bank a hoorah 
o' success, the current swept him aff o' his feet, an' 
carried him into deep water. The young scamp set up 
a yell o' despair nae ordinar, whilk brought to the 
rescue a stalwart yeoman at the ploo, wha on observin' 
a something strugglin' in mid-water, plunged in^ at the 
risk o' his ain life, an' wi' muckle difficulty brocht 
William ashore, clean drooned at last. The village 
was a in a hooly-baloo, as ye may weel jaloose. The 
wives flew to comfort his mither, an' amo' the rest 
Granny Graham, a woman o' some skeel, wha pro- 
nounced life no to be entirely extinct ; sae by dint o' 
rubbin', an' scrubbin', an' warm blankets, an' the usual 
restorative appliances in sic cases, Willie opened his 
e'e aince mair upo' the warl. But a' that didna fleg 
him a grain frae the water, nor yet keep him frae com- 
mittin' mair mischief Joseph Nicol, the very con- 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. • 207 

stable, had a line tree in the neuk o' his yaird, rowin' 
fu' o' red-cheekit apples. Willie had afteu tried to 
climb this tree, but aye failed ; there was nae possible 
wauy o' reachin' this pomona region but by a lang 
ladder, whilk cudna be brocht into active operation 
but by the assistance o' ithers, an' a participation in 
the spoils. This didna please Wille — he wished to be 
the hero o' the play alone. A plan suggested itsel' to 
his mind at last, whilk was to houk the tree oot ; an' 
I verily believe the task wad hae been accomplished, 
had he no, in his desperation in diggin', dang the sharp 
prong o' the graipe richt through his bare foot, frae the 
instep to the sole, whilk pat an' en' to a' further 
progress. 

Such a bold boy was La Teste in his seventh year ; 
but the daring spirit that naething cud cowe was 
cowed at last, whan he fell a victim to that then 
dreaded malady the measles ; and now I come to the 
most romantic and miraculous stage o' his early 
history. 

Wull-a-wins, weel do I mind the nicht puir Willie 
catched the terrible disease, hoo he loupit the back 
winnock oonkent to us a', an' through the auld kirk- 
yaird, to hae ae ither slide upo' the glassy rone. 
Three times did he drink the chaupin' jug fu' o' salts, 
the A 1 medicine o' the day for a sickness ; but the 
sickened stamack wadna retain them, sae we laid him 
exhausted an' faint in his cosy crib, whaur he lay for 
nigh twa years, the wonder o' hundreds, an' the 
miracle o' the time. 

The cauld had driven the measles to the inside, the 
disease seated in the chest an' upper region o' the ab- 



208 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

domen, swelling commenced an' gradually increased to 
a degree beyond my powers o' description, attended by 
a burning and insatiable thirst. Gallon aifter gallon 
o' cauld water drank the dear sufferin' laddie, whilk 
was nae sooner drank than immediately vomited. 
Powders by the hundred puir "Willie eagerly- 
swallowed, an' bottles o' castor oil without number, but 
to nae purpose. Medical men frae a' pairts o' the 
country, an' frae the college in Aberdeen, cam' to pass 
their verdict on the case, whilk they declared was 
hopelessly incurable. Months rolled awa^ an' cam', 
but they brocht nae relief to the tortured laddie, hope 
itsel' deet at last, the limbs waxed rigid an' cauld, the 
eyelids closed apparently in eternal sleep, not a breath 
pairtit the pale lips, not a single pulsation cud the 
doctor feel in a' that bruised an' tortured body, an' that 
functionary accordingly in his wisdom pronounced 
dear Willie La a corpse. 

Och-hon, there wasna a dry e'e that nicht in a' the 
village o' Kincardine, for he was a universal favourite 
wi' auld an' young, an' it was wi' a sair hairt that 
Geordie Sparks, honest man, as he said himsel' began 
to nail thegither the laddie's coffin. Puir Johnny 
Snowie, the hunch-backit bellman, grat as he houket 
the hole ; he wad rather, he said, hae buried a' the 
folk o' the parish, an' the parson to boot, than the 
brave loony he liket sae weel. It's an auld proverb, 
"near dead never helpit the kirkyaird." Although 
Willie was dead to the warl, an' the warl believin' him 
dead, nevertheless there was one wha wadna on nae 
account cherish sic a belief, an' that ane was Jane 
Broon, his mother, wha affirmed that she cud feel 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 209 

Willie's hairty still beatin' by pressin' the loof o' her 
han' to his back. Of coorse naebody believed sic an 
affirmation. Eolk naturally concluded grief for her 
son had mayhap affected the woman's mind ; hooever, 
she wad on nae accoont allow the laddie to be coffined, 
an' that bein' the case, the funeral consequently cudna 
tak' place. Geordie Sparks, nae ill pleased ava, laid 
the kist on a shelf i' the shop, an' Johnny Snowie had 
to find anither tenant for his carefully dug grave, whilk 
proved a sair begite to some o' the young M.D.'s in 
Aberdeen. Ane, twa, an' three weeks passed awa', an' 
Willie lay as rigid in death as ever, but withoot ony 
o' the usual appearances that precede decomposition. 
An' noo, ye see, the word got wing that the laddie 
wasna dead but in a trance, an' folk by the score 
flockit frae a' pairts o' the kintra to be e'e witnesses o' 
sic an extraordinar' phenomenon. 

At this particklar junctur the worthy Maister 
Eogers, the parson, interposed, an' vowed to issue a 
bull o' excommunication frae a' kirk privileges against 
the said Jean Broon, unless she wad immediately alloo 
the dust to return unto the dust, whilk had already 
been retained ower lang frae Christian sepulture. An' 
relyin' as he did on the knowledge o' the doctor an' 
ither eminent men o' the medical profession, he hadna 
a shadow o' a doot but that the spirit had gone a month 
ago to God wha gave it. 

James the Mason, puir man, was in a sad fix. Eeason 
whispered the parson was in the richt, an' wi' a hairt 
sad eneuch he urged upon his wife the impropriety o' 
keepin' the corpse sae lang i' the hoose, whan it was 
evident that life had been extinct lang ago, an' that her 





210 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

persistin' in the idea o' liis hairt still beatin' at his 
back cud be naething but a delusion, or the pulsation 
o' her ain han'. But a' their arguments fell to the 
grun wi' Jean Broon, an' blessed be God for't. Little 
cared she for the parson's bull, or his coo either. Firm 
in the belief that her darlin' laddie's hairt still struggled 
to throb underneath that mountain swellin', she de- 
termined, wi' the advice an' assistance o' Granny- 
Graham, that skeely auld wife, to apply hot poultices 
as a last resource, a remedy whilk the doctors had all 
along strictly forbidden. Now, this process o' oors we 
behooved to keep a profound secret amon' oorsels three, 
save an' exceptin' his father, an' I canna but own I 
felt some gey queer qualms come ower me, as we ap- 
plied the first poultice, for it seemed to me to be 
tamperin' wi' the dead. Hooever, poultice aifter 
poultice was applied a' that lee lang nicht, an' towards 
mornin' there was an evident change in the appearance 
o' the patient. The same coorse was adoptit the 
followin' nicht, an' oor joy may be better imagined 
than described whan we discovered that the limbs sae 
lang cauld an' stiff had lost their rigidity, a natural 
heat had begun to pervade the hale frame, the lips 
partially opened, an' the eyelids seemed to have lost 
the waxy appearance of death. 

In high hope o' oor endeavours provin' ultimately 
successful, the same dose, that is, the poultice, was 
repeated on the third nicht, an' we, the women folk, 
bein' sair forfochen wi' oor labours o' love, or whatever 
ye like to ca't, behooved to tak' an hoor or sae o' a bit 
sleep, leavin' the Mason himsel' to keep watch an' 
ward durin' that time. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 211 

James, puir man, had as muckle need o' an boor's 
repose as ony o's, for his claes hadna been aff for sax 
ooks afore, except to change his linen ; an' feelin' unco 
droosy i* the dead boor o* nicht, it behooved him to 
lay his cheek npo' the pillow on Willie's crib, an' tak 
twa winks i' the by-gaen. Waukenin' in a wudden 
dream, an' startin* to his feet, somewhat alarmed, his 
e'en rivetted on the sheet, it struck him forcibly there 
was a movement underneath; an' drawin' the said 
coverin' gently aff the happet face, lo an' behold, the 
lids sae lang closed were wide open, wi' the auld smile 
lurkin' in the neuk o' his e'e. The lips moved, but sae 
faint was the soond, the mason had to lay his auricular 
organ in close proximity to his mouth. It was indeed 
a breathin' frae the tomb ; but sweetly, tenderly, the 
word fell on Jamie's lug, an' that dear word was — 
"Father.'* 

It's no in my power to describe the scene whilk 
followed the awaukenin' frae the grave ; gin there 
was muckle dool at Willie's death, there was ten times 
mair joy at his resurrection. The poultice had done 
its wark bravely ; the mass o' matter whilk burdened 
that poor hairt sae lang, an' pressed it oot o' its proper 
place, may be better conceived whan I state it filled 
twa luater pails. The doctor, decent man, stood per- 
fectly dumfoondered — he wadna believe his ain seven 
senses, but appealed to a higher tribunal to ken gin it 
cud be possible. Mony a dowie day had puir Willie 
aifter that ; but what wi' the b&,lmy air o' Ballater, 
Pannanich water an' goat's milk, in the coorse o' time 
he got fat an' weel, an' as liyely as ever, an' at mair 
mischief 



212 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

In his tenth year, James the Mason removed wi' his 
family to Aberdeen, whaur Willie was again put to 
school, under Mr Esson, of pious memory, Holborn ; 
an' Maister Black, Marywell Street ; an' finally under 
the justly -lamented Maister Stuart of Gilcomston. 
Wi' this gentleman he was an' especial favourite, an' 
kept up a poetical correspondence wi' him aifter he 
cam' to Morayshire, whilk happened in his thirteenth 
year. In one o' his letters, written some weeks pre- 
vious to his death, Mr Gilcomston admonishes him to 
be wise, vigilant, an' persevere in his grammar — " The 
day will come, my dear boy, whan ye'IL mak' a silk 
purse oot o' a sow's lug, an' be ranked amongst oor 
modern classic bards." 

Hoo far this prognostication has come true, I leave't 
for learned folk to judge. To me he is simply what 
he has been an' ever will be, my dear Willie La. 

The pages alloted for my brief sketch o' his early 
years bein' completed, I noo leave him at Westerton 
House, in the Glen. His life as a flunkey, his travels 
abroad, his earlier loves, an' his later sins an' sorrows 
will be better described by himsel' in a future edition 
o' his works. 

That sovereign blessin's may freely fa' aroond the 
firesides o' a' wha purchase the present volume, is the 
earnest prayer o'. 

Yours, very truly. 

Granny M'Doodle. 



Elgin : Pi-inted by Jeans & Grant. 



